


Thomas Barrow and What Could Have Been

by Pastache



Series: Thomas Barrow, A Biography: It's Only Funny When it Happens to Someone Else [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastache/pseuds/Pastache
Summary: Here's the thing. Life is an endless series of trainwrecks with only brief commercial-like breaks of happiness. This had been the ultimate commercial break. Which meant it was time to return to our regularly scheduled programming.Aka the moments we should have seen in Downton Abbey (strictly extrapolation of cannon information)





	1. But First A Little Backstory...

Thomas had taken O’Brien’s advice rather to heart- over the last few months he’d started collecting friends. Or allies. Or what have you. Now it was 1912 and he’d set up a comfy little flow of letters, from all the people he’d collected, and was well informed on all incoming gossip and news, not to mention the impressive pillow talk he’d gathered in the process.

Thomas had immediately taken charge after his promotion; he was _first_ footman, after all- above William- and he never left out an opportunity to remind him. William didn’t make it easy on himself; always vacant or never quite in the right place at the right time, and always with a friendly little smile on his face. Thomas felt his paternal instincts flourish; he was determined to crush this sunny optimism, and chided William like a child even though he was barely two years his younger,

“Stop makin’ a racket with that piano- some of us have work to do.”

“You’d better go polish the finery- the Dowager Countess is payin’ a visit an’ I have to go see to his Lordship.”

“You’re late.”

“I’m here aren’t I?” That stupid friendly smile again,

“You’re late when I say you’re late.”

 

Mr Carson seemed to agree with Thomas’ authority so long as Thomas kept his tone formal, and whenever Mr Carson performed his unofficial inspections he always picked something off of William’s lapels, but barely gave Thomas a glance over. Thomas expected Mr Carson would give up on his search for a new valet and just let Thomas keep at it- he got on with Lord Grantham easily enough, was impeccably smart and never had so much as a visible toe out of line. Why shouldn’t he do a job he was good at, experience aside?

 

However, love makes great fools of all men, and love hit Thomas hard, as it always does the first time. The most valuable pillow talk, and a heavy life lesson to boot, came from the Duke of Crowborough, AKA Philip. They’d met just after Thomas had been promoted- the family had gone down to London for Edith’s first season (although Thomas couldn’t see the point- she’d wind up a spinster anyway, with the whiney middle-child attitude she’d developed).

When the Duke wrote to visit the Dowager Countess, Thomas was selected to be added to the staff for the duration of the visit, (it wouldn’t do not to put on a show, after all).

            “I haven’t the faintest idea why he’s taking an interest now, especially as everything has been tied up with Mary and Patrick.” The Dowager confided to Lady Grantham, as Thomas served luncheon. The Duke was due to arrive the next day.

            “Maybe he doesn’t think everything’s been tied up as neatly as all that.” The American accent was still something of a vulgar surprise.

            “Well, regardless- Mary won’t inherit anything if she _doesn’t_ marry Patrick- I dare say a Duke is not interested in a second or third born.” She paused and took a dignified sip of her wine. “It’s highly suspicious.”

            “Are we to judge a man for coming to dinner? Perhaps he has some other business with yourself, or else he’d have asked to dine with us.”

            “Don’t be optimistic, Cora, it’s very middle-class.” Cora tried to respond- agree, somehow form a relationship with her mother-in-law, but as usual the Dowager had her own agenda.

            “His coming here is to sniff out future prospects. I for one shall be entirely encouraging him.”

            “But with Patrick-”

            “I think we both know Mary’s motivations. She’ll be far happier as a Duchess- and Robert certainly _won’t_ do anything to get in the way, so he’ll be forced to break that _ridiculous_ entail.”

            “Isn’t it a little soon to talk of marriage?”

            Another sip of wine. “We shall see.”

 

            “Dowager Countess, thank you so much for having me.”

            Spratt (a man Thomas couldn’t quite help but secretly like), Collins (uselessly loyal to Spratt, with no personality to speak of), the maid (but not the cook), and Thomas, stood respectfully outside, on parade. The Dowager marched towards the Duke ( _quite a handsome Duke_ , Thomas thought idly), and they bowed before she offered her hand,

            “I admit your coming was a surprise, but a pleasant one. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Duke.” He took her hand and smiled charmingly.

            Was it Thomas, or had the Duke’s eyes strayed on him? _Don’t go losing your job a year after you’ve got it_. He carefully didn’t alter his face.

 

At luncheon Thomas was to serve the meat, with of some faceless idiot the Duke had brought, whom Thomas hadn’t bothered to lean the name of, following with the sauce. As he bent to present some of the finest smelling pork Thomas personally had ever encountered, he could have sworn the Duke looked at him, briefly.

            Alas, the conversation was hideously dull in itself, the Dowager dared not use her best barbs, though she did wheedle information out of the Duke steadily, and after twenty minutes he had dropped his ‘innocent and charming’ act in favour of severe business tones. Thomas liked the Duke for getting along with the Dowager. But then, Thomas had a weakness of respect for the tough old bird.

 

            “Ah- you there, I’m terribly sorry, what is your name?”

            “Thomas, your Grace.” Thomas had been on his way to attend to the Dowager’s bell, but supposed she wouldn’t chastise him for attending the Duke first. He stood smartly, tone clipped.

            “Ah yes, Thomas- it’s really very silly, but I’ve forgotten which room I’m in- I was wondering if you wouldn’t show me up?”

            “Of course, your Grace. Please, follow me.” Thomas had to keep his wits about him- unusual, yes. It was certainly unusual for someone to forget which room they were in, but that didn’t _mean_ anything.

            “This is your room, your Grace.” He opened the door and stood smartly to the side. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

            “Well, yes, actually, there is.” The Duke glanced over his shoulder and stepped into the room, beckoning Thomas to follow. Thomas shut the door behind them, on high alert.

            “You see, the thing is, my valet- he’s… not the brightest of sparks, you know?” _Ah, the faceless idiot_ , “And as you’re here… I was wondering if you mightn’t help me dress for dinner- I need someone who knows what they’re doing and he’s terribly new- eager young thing of course but…” he shrugged helplessly. “You work for the Grantham’s, don’t you?”

            “Yes, your Grace. I’m valet to his Lordship.” It wasn’t exactly untrue. _How did the Duke know?_

            “Splendid!” The Duke clapped his hands together, “Right- my wardrobe is there- he’s already laid my evening dress out, but what I really need help with…” he strode and pulled a drawer open, standing back and gesturing for Thomas to look. Inside were dozens of cufflinks _how many did one man need for a weekend stay_ , and Thomas studied them for a long moment, turned around- a few taking his fancy- and paused.

            “Well, which do you think?” The Duke had removed his shirt, was standing, quite openly, with his hands on his hips. If he caught Thomas looking he gave no sign of it.

            “I like these ones, your Grace.” He pointed carefully to a pair of silver sterling ones, with a mother of pearl centre and blue enamel outer ring.

            “Hmm.” The Duke was standing altogether too close to be truly _proper_ but maybe that was just how he was.

            “Yes- I see why you like those- they’d go well with your eyes.” _That_ wasn’t proper, surely? “But I’ve brown ones- the effect wouldn’t be as remarkable.” Thomas looked and indeed, the Duke was in possession of some very fine brown eyes. He let his gaze linger, to invite further flirtation, if flirtation was indeed what was being hinted at. He also let his look drop to the Duke’s exposed chest. Risky, but not something he could be thrown in prison for.

            “See- I’m rather fond of the _violet_ ones.” The Duke wasn’t looking at cufflinks. He was looking very firmly at Thomas.

            “I imagine you would be, you Grace.” Thomas said evenly. The atmosphere felt a little thick between them.

            “I think we can drop the ‘your Grace’s’ for now. Seems a little formal for a bedroom arrangement, don’t you think?” the Duke took Thomas’ wrist, Thomas didn’t stop him.

            “What sort of ‘bedroom arrangement’ did y’have in mind?”

            The Duke smirked. Thomas arched an eyebrow. The Duke brought Thomas’ hand to his cheek and he _had_ been right after all.

            “One where a good-looking servant does _exactly_ as his master bids him.”

            “I think I can manage that…” he lingered for the correct address.

            “Duke, is what you can call me- while we’re in here.” _Thank God_.

            Thomas stayed still as the Duke rid him off his cotton gloves, bringing Thomas’ hands to his chest this time.

            “How long do we have until supper, Thomas?”

            “You have half an hour, Duke.” _That felt a little odd, odder than my hands on him_.

            “Perfect.” Thomas was rid of his tie and tails- he paused the advances to hang them neatly, less they crease, and stripped his waistcoat and shirt into the bargain, keeping his eyes on the Duke

            “Hmm- why don’t you take off the rest over here?”

            Philip (not that Thomas knew his first name) had wandered towards the lush bed and gestured for Thomas to follow. This time, Thomas took some initiative, closing the distance between them and cupping the Duke’s cheeks as he kissed him. The Duke was a little rougher in his intentions- half-tackling Thomas to the bed, hands already working at his trousers, and then Thomas was pressing a _Duke_ into the mattress and pressing kisses down his neck and chest, and Philip was groaning, his hand messing Thomas’ hair. Thomas paused when he reached the Duke’s trousers, hand cupping the tent at his crotch. The Duke lifted his hips impatiently.

            “Ah, look at you- you certainly know what you’re doing… this is not your first affair, is it?”

            First _affair_ , certainly. He suspected the Duke wasn’t going to rid himself of Thomas’ company at least until the end of his visit. He was going to be late to prepare for dinner. _Ah well_ … The Duke must have told his valet not to bother- _cheeky. He’s been planning this_. Thomas pressed his lips to the Duke’s stomach, speaking over his skin.

            “No, your Grace” _it was too weird without correct address,_ “it isn’t.”

            “And there I was thinking you a thing of sublime innocence- with looks like yours I suppose that was a romantic notion.”

            Thomas huffed a laugh and finally got the Duke’s trousers off. “I just do what I’m told- if that’s not innocence what is?”

            The Duke laughed and Thomas decided he liked the sound of it. He liked the sound the Duke made when he put his palm beneath his undergarments more.

            “Ah- take your trousers off, Thomas- you’re wearing far too much for my liking.”

            Thomas stood from the bed and did as bidden, folding them neatly. He made a rather English picture; clad in nothing but his socks, garters and underwear. Underwear that did no job to hide the nature of his desires. He straddled the Duke again and Philip rose to his elbows to meet his lips. Thomas ran his hands down the Dukes’ chest and Philip lifted his hips to help Thomas’ effort to remove the final layer, and kicked them petulantly off the side of the bed.

            “Come on Thomas, I haven’t patience for all this preamble- use your hands for what they’re good for.”

            “Yes, _your Grace_.” Thomas took matters in hand, bending to press more doting kisses to his stomach.

            “Ah- yes like _that_.” He rut his hips up and Thomas took it in stride, moving his mouth lower- remarkable how effective ‘the French way’ was. Then he gripped Philip’s hips because the man became very _un_ gentlemanly, and thrust his hips up until Thomas choked and raised his head.

            “I’m experienced, but I’m no Majory.”

            The Duke scoffed. “You lot have such a peculiar way of talking…” He sighed, “Oh- please, Thomas _do_ -” he pushed Thomas’ head down again, but was a little more courteous this time, and Thomas soon found a suitable rhythm.

            “Ah- oh goodness- that’s quite enough of that if we’re not… _ah_ how long do we have?”

            Thomas glanced up. _Do I look like I’m wearing my timepiece?_

            “Never the less… oh _damn it_ you’d better valet for me this evening- so we can make more of- it’s been far too long and I- ah _yes_ Thomas that’s it- do it like _that_.” He made a few short gasping sounds, and with a small noise he lifted his hips and held Thomas’ head in place, firmly, but with room for Thomas to wriggle away when he was done.

            Thomas moved immediately for a handkerchief, cheeks rather red, and Philip looked him up and down, collecting himself. For a moment Thomas expected The Duke to dismiss him- this had all been _part of the service_ \- but his slightly parted mouth and wanting eyes had caught the Duke’s attention.

            “Usually I don’t- but God I can’t bear to leave you looking like that, come here.”

            Thomas crawled back over the bed and Philip kissed him, not moving his mouth as his hand went for Thomas’ hard-on. Thomas groaned quietly and rut his hips up, kneeling over Philip’s lap as the other man sat up to meet him.

            “The noises you make are _divine_.”

            Thomas wasn’t used to flattery- his heart beat faster, and each time the Duke erred on the side of gentleness… Thomas melted against him, forehead to his shoulder, pressing needy kisses to Philip’s neck and Philip encouraged him softly, twisting his wrist and moving his hand a little slower.

            “Is this how you like it, Thomas? Soft words whispered in your ear while you’re _caressed_? I know it is.”

            Thomas inhaled sharply and leant away to move in and take Philip’s mouth, parting his lips easily when the Duke demanded it and letting him lay claim to him.

            “Yes- I’m- oh- I think- _yes_.” If the Duke liked his noises, noises were what he was going to get.

            “Yes, that’s it Thomas- go on-” a sharp twist of his wrist and Thomas was done, rocking his hips up and against the Duke’s hand, gasping for breath, the flush in his cheeks complimenting the curve of his cheekbones and the red of his lips.

            “Hmm. You’re beautiful like this.” Philip dropped his hand, studying Thomas closely.

            “I think we’d better make a go of this, don’t you?”

            “Yes, your Grace.”

 

Thomas rushed down, muttering his apologies about the Duke keeping him busy and dinner was ready impeccably on time, as always- although perhaps with more haste than was usual, this time. Thomas didn’t look at the Duke all through dinner, and Philip made a good show of not looking either. Evening came and went, Thomas practically pacing until the faceless valet shuffled over and said, rather dejectedly, that the Duke had asked Thomas to valet for him- _his_ services would no longer be required.

            Thomas took the stairs a few at a time, smartening himself up before he knocked and opened the door.

            “Your Grace?”

            “Urgh Dinner was such a _drag_ \- I’m glad you’re here to lighten things up a little.” Philip smiled and gestured for Thomas to close the door. Thomas did so and stood in the centre of the room.

            “Now we have a little more time…” the Duke rubbed his hands together, looking at Thomas with the glee of a child unwrapping a long anticipated gift. “Clothes- off.” Philip waved his hand.

            Thomas let a smirk come to his features as he stripped off his tails, his waistcoat… all the way down until he was left standing bare in a pile of clothes- he could have them ironed before they were needed again.

            The Duke walked around him, dressed in an evening gown, and presumably nothing else, and looked Thomas up and down while he stood to attention. He made a low appreciative hum, and ran his hand along Thomas’ stomach. Thomas felt heated butterflies at the touch.

            “My my, I am going to have my hands full when it comes to you aren’t I? You’re a terrible distraction you know.” Philip had moved so he spoke directly into Thomas’ ear, hands running up Thomas’ sides.

            “You’re far too stunning to be a footman… they should put you in a gallery.”

            “I don’t intend to be a footman for long.” _Business_ wasn’t supposed to be a part of this, but as O’Brien had said…

            Philip huffed a laugh. “With your looks… I’d have you as my valet like a shot- now, let’s see…” He turned Thomas’ chin towards him and his playful smirk said all it needed to.

            “Bed. Now. There’s a good fellow.”

            Thomas went to the bed, sat in plush red velvet in the centre of the room. With all the options available for presenting himself he went with lying on his side, his most effective _come hither_ look on his face. It always worked.

            “ _God_ look at you- like you belong there- I think I’m in over my head, you really are…” Philip got distracted as he went over and lay beside him, immediately pressing his lips to Thomas’ and the words were dropped in favour of soft touches and flirtatious looks. Thomas cupped Philip’s cheeks and pushed closer, letting one hand wander to open the Duke’s gown. Philip didn’t complain.

            “Wanting you already, would you look at that?” Philip looked with half-lidded eyes to Thomas’ lips, “I’d like it if you put your mouth on me again- you do this thing with your tongue and I- _ah_.”

            Thomas had put his hand on Philip’s cock.

            “Yes, your Grace?”

            “Oh you’re too naughty for words- _ah_ Thomas- I want to make an evening of this- are you available- it’d be criminal to rush things when I so rarely get- _hm_ \- someone like you in my bed.”

            “Yes, your Grace. I’ve no more duties until tomorrow.” Thomas’ lips quirked into a smile as he mouthed along Philip’s collar bone and down his chest. “I’m all yours.”

            “I should hope so…” Philip muttered as Thomas shuffled down the bed to a better angle, Philip admiring the firm line of his shoulders and how his back curved into his buttocks, legs so quaintly curled up by the foot of the bed. He put his hand to the back of Thomas’ neck, letting his eyes flicker shut while he enjoyed the comforting quiet of Thomas’ mouth- his gentle movements, with intent, but with tenderness… Philip lifted his hips up, sighing softly, and when Thomas blinked those gorgeous blue eyes up the Duke found his breath coming a little shorter. He ran his thumb up Thomas’ cheek to bring his head up.

“Roll over, I’m too wanting for anything else.”

            It had been a while since… this… Thomas obediently rolled to the side, wondering if the Duke might not keep up at least the pretence of bedside manner. But then, the unravelling of a lifetime of breeding could be taken as a compliment. He glanced at Philip over his shoulder, to see the man fumble at the bedside for the jar of magic every man in his position needed. He knelt up on all fours, assuming that’s how he was wanted and the Duke moved closer, to press a kiss to Thomas’ lips before he did anything else.

            “You’ve done this before?”

            Thomas nodded, already working on relaxing himself.

            “I take it you’ve not done this properly, then. Judging by that petrified look on your face.”

            “I enjoy it- only after- when it doesn’t feel so…”

            Philip nodded. “Well it’s not going to be like that with me. You like things gently, don’t you, Thomas?” Philip said, with a fairly coated finger pushing inside him. Thomas let out a slow breath.

            “So, gently is what you’re going to get.” Philip bent and kissed Thomas’ shoulders and down his spine, moving Thomas’ knees open a little more to make the second finger even easier and smiled softly against Thomas’ skin.

            “I find- in your position. They prefer it if you keep talking… silence seems ominous-”

            “You don’t have to convince me you like the sound of your own voice.”

            Philip crooked his fingers and Thomas gasped softly.

            “Cheeky thing, aren’t you?”

            “God.” Thomas let his façade unravel, a tad, and pushed his hips back against the Duke’s hand.

            “Mmm- found the right spot, did I? I told you there was a right way of doing this…” He managed a third finger, moving his hand evenly as he ran the other down Thomas’ spine and under him- Thomas was hard, of course, but the added incentive made the whole process a little less… functional.

            “ _Ah_ \- what’re you- that’s- yes I like that-” Thomas bit off a ‘your Grace’ before it slipped out- formality was a lost hope.

            “ _Yes_ Thomas, tell me what you like.” Philip took a moment to slick himself up, removing his fingers, which brought a small noise of complaint from Thomas. He inhaled sharply, kissing up Thomas’ spine as he got the angle right and pushed in. Thomas’ thighs tensed and he exhaled, dropping his head for a moment, before Philip mapped his clean hand over Thomas’ abdomen, wiping the other on the duvet.

            “Yes- that’s it- _God_ Thomas doesn’t that feel _divine_?” He brought his hips flush and moved his hand to goad Thomas on; a few firm twists of his wrist and Thomas was rocking his hips back.

            “Yes- that’s- much better- yes- you can…”

            Philip drew back his hips and pushed forward, setting up a slow pace, at first. Thomas’ hands fisted the sheets, wrists already complaining at holding his weight and it was both nice and not so to have nothing to look at but the pillow in front. For one the _feeling_ of it all- Thomas could tune in better, and he didn’t have to worry he was pulling a silly face, or that the arch of his spine wasn’t enough- he could let the Duke do as he pleased and _yet_. Those soft brown eyes would be a blessing- Thomas made a mental note to change positions if their affair continued.

His lucid monologue didn’t last long, not with Philip raking a hand up his chest and then down, so his chest was flat against Thomas’ back and he moved in him as he moved against him, his mouth and all the pretty noises that came out of it near his ear (he was making remarkable work to cancel out their height difference) and _still_ moving his hand so Thomas could feel it there, too. Already Thomas was flushed, a thin atmosphere of sweat taking over them as their baser instincts did, and Thomas forgot he was a footman being buggered by a Duke and gasped and groaned with the man above him instead.

            “God- I- _oh_ _bloody.._.” He was swearing now, too- there would be a name on his lips if he knew one.

            “Yes- Yes Thomas _exactly_ \- oh the way you’re moving and- _ah_ it’s all perfect, Thomas, yes, _God_ I don’t know about you but I’m…”

            Thomas nodded, rapt in what they were doing, his mind with Philip’s, and pushed his hips back harder as Philip redoubled his efforts, wrist movements getting sloppy but all the more desperate, and as his other hand went over Thomas’- grasping the back of his hand over the mattress. Thomas groaned and was spent- his hips jerking uselessly, mouth hanging open, neck arching up, and eyes squeezed shut,

            “Oh- oh _God_.”

            Philip pressed sloppy kisses to Thomas’ jaw, gasping against his skin, and wasn’t long in following, pushing once, firmly, and then tensing against Thomas’ back. One exhaled breath and his hips stilled for a moment, before he went lax, putting his weight over Thomas’ back, and laughing softly.

            “Well… that was… we’re doing that again.”

            He pulled out and Thomas moved, taking the weight off his wrists as several parts of his body complained of being sore, or threatened to soon become so. He turned around, sitting back on the bed- mess be damned- and pulled Philip closer, not entirely sure what he was doing. He kissed Philips’ mouth and made a few content noises as he ran his hand up to the Duke’s cheek, holding him around his waist, and for a while Philip relented and gave in to the affection, pulling back slowly after a long moment.

            “Glad you enjoyed it too.”

            “Certainly I did. An’ y’were… thank you, for showin’ me.” It seemed a stupid thing to say, but when could stupid things be said if not post-coitus?

            Philip laughed. “Your voice… it’s rougher when you’re spent.”

            Thomas must have looked startled because he added,

            “It’s helplessly endearing. I like your rugged voice- I command you use it whenever we’re alone together.”

            “There’ll be a next time, then?”

            “Oh yes. And again, and _again,”_ Philip pressed a kiss to Thomas’ mouth, leaning him back into the pillows, “And _again_. As often as I can, if I have any say in it.”

            “Fond of me then, are you?” It was odd using his downstairs voice in the presence of ‘upstairs’ folk- almost intimate.

            They settled so Philip lay on his side, next to Thomas on his back, hand against his cheek supported by his elbow on the pillow. “Mmm, something like that. You’re exquisite- I’d be a fool to let you go so easily.”

           

And so began a summer dalliance. Thomas dropped the ‘your Grace’s’ eventually- when _Philip_ gave him his name… Thomas’ heart beat double, as Philip had known it would and the ensuing left them both spent and dishevelled.

“Why do you always go for the handkerchief? It’s easier if you just swallow it.”

            Thomas made a face.

            “Fine, fine, suit yourself- only it would make such a divine picture if you wouldn’t move away so quickly… I like having you near me.”

 

They spent all the time they could together, reasonably. The Duke wasn’t with the Dowager for long, but he was in London for the season. And so was Thomas. So, half-days, evenings (when he could), and all begged free time was spent in the lavish London house of the Duke of Crowborough. Although, apparently not as lavish as it seemed.

            “Mother says I have to find someone this season- the money is…” he exhaled a stream of smoke. Both men lay naked on the Duke’s bed. “Not what it used to be.”

            Thomas wasn’t sure when this had stopped being about relations and progressed to something where they _talked_ to one another about real things- outside-world things, but it felt right.

            “I have opportunities, of course, every girl here _dreams_ of being a Duchess but…”

            “Don’t plan on their husband spending more time with their servicemen than their wife?”

            Philip flicked a bit of ash at him. “Cheeky. No, they most certainly do not, although what women know about what’s supposed to go on in a marital bed…” he huffed off another mouthful of smoke. “I can manage it, I think. But it has to be an heiress, and _only_ because I need to produce an heir myself.”

            Thomas hadn’t before considered the constraints of the upper classes. “What about Lady Mary? She’s rich.” And giving Thomas more excuses to see the Duke would be an added bonus.

            “No she’s all tied up in that entail business- I gave her a dance, anyway, just to be safe. I was quite charming when we managed to get alone together.”

            “Alone meaning surrounded by itchy spinsters and widows, makin’ sure nothin’ _improper_ goes on?”

            Philip huffed a laugh. “Exactly. If they only knew the truth, hmm?” A comfortable silence stretched out for a moment.

            “What about you?”

            “What about me?” Thomas reached for the ashtray.

            “What are you planning…” Philip waved his cigarette, “for your future?”

            “Well I’m not plannin’ on bein’ a footman much longer, that’s for bloody sure.”

            “If only I could steal you away- only mother won’t let me hire anyone else, given our current circumstances…” Thomas caught Philips hand and pressed a kiss to it, moving his mouth over the back of the Duke’s hand and up his wrist. Philip watched for a moment, transfixed.

            “I suppose if I _did_ wind up with Lady Mary- I’m sure the old man wouldn’t be so heartless as to steal her inheritance, let it go to some stranger- if I did propose… it’d be worth it to have an excuse to keep you with me.”

            Thomas smiled, a private sort of smile he’d recently developed. Philip returned it.

            “Why wait? Find a reason to get rid of your valet… I’m all yours.”

            “You always are.” Philip sighed and shuffled, making himself comfortable and getting Thomas within kissing distance, pressing a quick one to his lips as he stubbed his cigarette.

            “If you do ever decide you want to leave the Abbey… I’m always here.”

            Thomas nodded, pulling Philip closer for a slower moment.

            “I think I’d like to stay, for the time being. I’ve only been there a couple’a years an’ I ought to wait until I can get a good reference. Besides- I’ve been valeting for his Lordship ever since Mr Watson left- I’m pretty sure they’ve given up lookin’- they’re bound to offer me the job, an’ then I’ll be travellin’ up to London with him an’ all, every few weeks no doubt.”

            “And will you have time, in your exciting new position, to come and visit me?”

            “I _suppose_ I could be persuaded to. Given the right incentive…”

            “I’ll do that thing you like, with the blindfold.”

            “Well _alright_ then.” Thomas arched an eyebrow and shot him a look as he moved for the drink’s tray.

            “Thomas, you absolute _tease_.”

 

It was happy memories. More than Thomas had had on the run, perhaps ever. The Duke- his _lover-_ spoilt him entirely; little gifts (cufflinks, ties, even a set of sterling silver sleeve garters) which Thomas could never hope to return but through his affections. Then, there were the new dances he was taught, (the Maxie, the Hesitation Waltz, the Grizzly Bear…) and the new _tricks_ he learnt, too. The part of Thomas that was proud, smug, at having reeled a _Duke_ , who had enticed him, who had his pillow talk and favours in the palm of his hand, gradually became replaced by something else. Actual _affection_ was taking over his ambitions. Thomas found he didn’t mind- it didn’t matter. Philip made him happy and he made Philip happy and maybe there was a _future_ somewhere. Thomas had to work to keep his smiles private when he thought of it in the servant’s hall.

 

Philip even tried to sneak him to events under the guise of a chauffer.

            “I can’t drive, you know.”

            “Well, then. We’ll have to teach you.” The Duke clambered out of the back and into the seat next to him. “I mean, how hard could it _be_?”

It was messy, nearly disastrous, but after three days of fooling around and trying not to crash into trees, Thomas had just about gotten the hang of it.

 

Even after the season was over, and a somewhat melancholy goodbye became a stream of letters, each growing more and more adoring, Thomas was happy. He stopped being quite so short with everyone, occasionally gave Daisy a smile and the time of day (even if he could do no more), and let some up slack on his abuses against William. O’Brien knew, of course. She’d been _very_ interested in an affair with a Duke, but it went no further. He wasn’t useful to them yet, anyhow.

 

And _then_. Something awful, and quite wonderful, happened.

            “Is it really true?”

            “’Fraid so.”

            “Nothing in life is sure.” Mrs Patmore said with that annoyingly sentimental tone.

            Thomas’ heart beat a little faster.

 

He nearly stamped his foot he was so impatient to ‘run into town’ as Mr Carson put it- still treating him like a child- but that didn’t matter now. He wrote the most inconspicuous telegram he could manage, waiting for hour-long minutes behind worried relatives of crew and guests on the recent Tragedy, and walked back up to Downton, hands in his pockets, alive with the feeling that it _could_ happen. He might end up set for life with a Duke, and living happily ever after, and being taken care of and…

            He almost _skipped_ up the road.


	2. Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick montage of the first few season's most memorable moments.

Of course, it would _today_. Brilliant today, when the Duke was arriving and everything was going to go to plan, the _one_ piece of bad news that had come in the last few months reared its crippled, limping, one-legged little head.

            “It’ll be a relief to get back to normal, won’t it Thomas?”

            Thomas tried very hard not to look as bitter as he felt. They’d found a replacement after all. Of course _O’Brien_ thought it was all his fault, for not being more forward about after the position.

            And then bloody _Anna_ tried to get involved- she’d never been one to get the message that he just wasn’t interested in being chummy. Or maybe she ignored it. God knows why.

            “Well I’m going for my dinner. You two can stay here. Plotting.”

            And she said it with that playful little smile of hers, _Thomas the naughty cousin at it again what **will** he do this time?_

            Thomas scoffed. And his mind went back to their impending visitor.

 

They were all paraded outside; the house was in full attention as the Duke of Crowborough pulled up to the drive. Thomas had made sure he was snarky about it, and was storing the little witticisms he’d made to amuse Philip with later. He could swear he felt O’Brien’s eyes briefly on him when the Duke got out of the car, but he was very good at keeping up the façade of footman.

            Or was it _valet_? That was a genius little move on Philip’s part- Thomas had wondered how they’d orchestrate it- but now- now it was _expected_ of him to go and take the Duke’s clothes off every evening- it was his duty- more so, he was being _paid_ to do it. Thomas got a good hearty chuckle from that one.

 

He’d hoped to have some private word with Philip- some lover’s meeting, as justly he was owed, and let William get distracted enough he wound up taking the numerous cases to the Duke’s room alone. He made a note to make some remark about his ridiculous over packing- but the moment was shattered when Lady bloody Mary…

            Well. Thomas couldn’t really be angry with her for doing exactly as he wanted her to, but even her irritating little-

            “Well, what would you like to do?”

            Which cost him his moment grated him. Worse was hearing Philip put on that soft charming tone and tell her he was “only worried the others will want to join” them on their little excursion (secret passages? That was a new one- but then it seemed to work on Lady Mary). Still. _If only you knew- the only one he really means that tone with is me. You haven’t a chance- you’re being played and no mistake_. He sorted out the bags, unpacked as he was bid, and had an angry cigarette to get over his frustrations. _Jus’ have to wait until after dinner. It’ll be even better then- we’ll have all evening, an’ I can show him that new trick I’ve heard about with the candles and the oil…_

But dinner was… odd. Lady Edith, determined as ever to spoil her sister’s chances, ( _with your looks maybe ‘bitch’ isn’t the way to go_ Thomas privately thought to himself), prattled on about them going up into the servant’s rooms. Thomas didn’t frown, but he glanced over before he could stop himself. _What was Phillip doing up there_? Still- just a little prank- Thomas could ask him about it later. The look he shot Thomas when they left the room wasn’t one he’d seen before. _Only a second of eye contact, Thomas, of course he can’t give you ‘love me do’ eyes over the bloody dinner table_.

 

Finally stupid bloody dinner was over and Thomas couldn’t eat a thing for himself, but he made the effort and scowled when his offer to take care of Lord Grantham was shot down. _Just you wait, Mr Carson; I’ll be out of here an’ happier than you ever could be- you’ll see._

            He tapped his foot and pretended to read the paper until William told him that the Duke had gone up, _early thank goodness- he must be as eager as I am_.

 

He took the stairs slowly, heart thudding loudly and was greeted, not with an expectant and passionate hello, but with Phillip scowling at himself in the mirror. He brightened up when he saw Thomas, and spun around, clad in that same evening gown, the same smile on his face.

            “Hello, Thomas.”       

            “Hello, _your Grace_. I’ve come to tend my services.” He shut the door, fingers itching to get down and dirty and _fast_.

            “Mmm well I think I can allow that- come here. I have to tell you something.”

            Thomas went to get a drink first, to steady his nerves, hanging up something he spotted on the floor through habit. What followed was _not_ good news.

            Philip wouldn’t be marrying Mary. They wouldn’t… he wouldn’t be…

            “What about _me_?” Surely _this_ was the lead up to the tangle of limbs he’d been waiting for. Maybe they’d…

            “ _You…_ you will wish me well.”

            _Teasing? Was he?_ Thomas roughened up his accent for added effect.

            “You said you’d find me a job if I wanted to leave.”

            “And do you?”

            _How could he even ask?_ “I want to be a valet. I’m sick of bein’ a footman.” He stood to put the shoes on the other side of the room. Philip’s tone was exasperated,

            “Yes, Thomas, I don’t _need_ a valet.” His tone softened. “I thought you were getting rid of the new one here?”

            _Perhaps sharing his plots had been a bad move- why was Philip being like this?_

“An’ I’ve done it, but ‘m not sure Carson’s goin’ to let _me_ take over.” Thomas went for the bed, _come hither_ face on. Enough talking- Philip would see sense once he’d gotten this frustration out of his system.

            He cupped Philip’s cheek “An’ I want to be with _you._ ”

            An uncommitted noise from Philip, but a smile twitched his lips when he melted against Thomas’ hand and looked up at him with a shred of the affection he’d once shown as Thomas leaned in.

            Philip allowed the kiss when it came but he pulled away, taking Thomas’s hand as he did. Thomas immediately pressed his mouth there instead, soothing, pleading without words. _Come on, take your kit off and we can argue about it later,_

            “I just can’t see it working, can you?”

            Thomas arched an eyebrow; pressing his lips to Philip’s knuckle now, locking his eyes onto Philip’s brown ones. _What are you sayin’ we’re supposed to be together it’s what you said you wanted_.

            Philip huffed a small laugh.

            “We don’t seem to have the basics of a servant-master relationship, do we?”

            “You came here to be with _me_.”

            “Among other reasons.”

            Thomas’ carefully didn’t look at Philip, some feeling in his gut making him uneasy, but, like a child who refuses to look at a mess he’s made, went back to Philip’s hand- as if he could tell him how important _this_ was without speaking.

            “And one swallow doesn’t make a summer.” Philip’s face said clearly _and that’s that then, nothing to be done, sorry Thomas._

            That was _… a cheap joke for one… he sounded like he meant that…_ Thomas stared, and drew back, awareness that he might not have been the _only_ handsome servant spending extra time in Philip’s chambers. _Drink. I need a drink. Now._

            He walked stiffly to the decanter. _Is that how you want to bloody play it- well O’Brien was bloody right about you lot an’ all an’ you think you can jus’… had your fun an’ who cares what the damage is?_ He turned back around, drink in hand. _Do you think you can jus’- what am I supposed to… **fine**._

            “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He took a sip of his drink and turned back. _Don’t lose your temper, Thomas, you can still win this one._

            “What?” Philip dared another small laugh. “Are you _threatening_ me?” Thomas swirled his drink, taking another long gulp. _If that’s how you want to see it- I call it payment. Treat me like some rent boy…_

            “Because of a youthful dalliance?”

_Is that all it was to you then? I know you’re lying. Why?_

            “A few weeks of madness in a London season- you wouldn’t hold that against me, surely?”

            Every word was getting Thomas’ blood closer to boiling point.

            “If you’re not careful you’ll end up behind bars.”

 _Oh no. Oh no you don’t_. “I’ve got proof.” _Oh yes. I’ve got you now. Jus’ see what happens when you think you’re cleverer than someone beneath you- you didn’t think I’d…_

            “Mmm-hmm.” Philip reached a hand behind him. “You mean these?”

            Thomas’ control of the situation slipped from his fingers.

 

And it was only _after_ \- when he’d pulled his coat on and stormed outside, back into real life, when he’d gotten away from his last embrace and started to regret not lashing out with his fist- feeling _weakness_ at his pathetic grappling because after all that he still hadn’t wanted to hurt Philip- _the Duke_ \- whatever. The image of himself, useless in Philip’s arms so _close_ to him and yet… he realized he’d lost the one person he cared about- the one glimmer of possibility- yet again Thomas had trusted and Thomas had been screwed over for it.

            He couldn’t face the servant’s hall, not yet, and paused for a moment outside- knowing he was still being oh so pathetic; praying Philip would come out an apologise and say it was alright and _why don’t they work something out together_. But then, he’d been planning this, he’d known from the moment Thomas walked in- sooner. He’d stolen his bloody letters… _fine. Let them burn. I don’t want any bloody reminder_.

            He could hear O’Brien’s voice in his head, chastising him for being so thick as to _trust_ someone who didn’t owe him anything, but worse- he felt like an idiot because he’d actually… and maybe it was just a punishment him for seeking happiness where he oughtn’t, or maybe it was because Thomas was a fool to trust another privileged rich idiot, who wouldn’t know how to care for someone else if he were paid to. He blinked away tears, feeling his throat get tight. It was Thomas against the world, then. As always. He’d been a fool to forget- to think otherwise. _Learn from this. Buck up an’ never think about him again- he’s not worth it_.

            On his walk back to his chamber, alone, he started to believe it.

 

It would take a few weeks, perhaps a few months, to swallow the feelings, but the Duke was gone by morning- Thomas _hadn’t_ given him the courtesy of a wake-up call, and the Duke hadn’t complained. Thomas snuck out the back for a cigarette and crept around to watch the car pull out and away. _Good riddance._ The last thing he’d see of the Duke, if he were lucky. And within a week, he’d stopped feeling hurt- he didn’t have to cry into his pillow like a little boy before he went to sleep, and started being hardened by it. A month and he was over it, feelings swallowed whole and lesson firmly learnt. The added sting of _Mr Bates_ didn’t help- but at least it gave him a funnel for his anger.

 

“So what do you think we’ll make of them?”

            The Crawley’s made Thomas’ blood boil. It was petty jealousy, really- _you don’t just magically ascend the ladder_ (or perhaps stairs were a more fitting metaphor) _you ‘ave to work your way- what right has he earned to come swanning in where he doesn’t belong?_ He busied himself with amusing Daisy with the paper. Something about messing with her affections, knowing he could never return them but still watching her helpless in front of him… and it put William in a bad mood. Two birds, one stone.

            He _never_ broke form, not upstairs, but he came close at the Dowager’s quip of dismissal to Mrs Crawley’s informality. _She agrees with me- what is the world coming to?_ Even Mr Carson gave her a quick smile of approval. _If even **Carson** agrees, this must be ridiculous_.

            “I will hold it steady, and you can help yourself, Sir.”         

            A little loyalty display went a long way- Carson wouldn’t approve, but he didn’t chastise him for it downstairs either, which was the same thing.

            Shame, really. The son was quite handsome. Not that Thomas was tempted- it was clear the man was an idiot.

           

“Poor old Molesley. I pity the man who’s taken that job.” Thomas returned to the hall,  _brimming­-_ ready to show everyone how _right_ his opinion was- have everyone agree with him for once.

            “Then why did you apply for it?”

            If looks could kill, Mr Bates would have dropped dead on the floor. Still, if looks could kill, Mr Bates would have been dead at least a hundred times over. But Thomas controlled his temper.

            “I thought it might help me get away from you, Mr Bates.”

            He was starting to quite enjoy their little rivalry. Especially when it helped him be so _clever_.

           

It was a stupid comment as he was walking down to the hall that tripped him up next.

            “She’s a match for the old lady- she wasn’t goin’ to give in.”

            “ _What_ old lady-” Thomas wheeled around, immediately at attention, “-are you referring to, Thomas? You cannot mean her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess- not if you wish to remain at this house.”

            Scolded like a little child. Taken down a peg. Just what he needed.

            “No, Mr Carson.”

            He made a face the second Carson moved to his next victim.

            _“William-”_

_Good._

            Thomas stood and watched while the others were told off- he didn’t mean to look smug, really, he didn’t. But _he_ hadn’t been dressed down in public.

            _Oh the others are so bloody keen to cheer William up- tell him he’ll be butler one day- fix his clothes. They wouldn’t stop to piss on me if I were on fire. Bastards, all of ‘em._

“Even Carson wasn’t born standing to attention.”

            “I hope not, for his mother’s sake.” Thomas glanced across the table, earning a few snickers and smirks as he lit his cigarette. _See. Happy an’ laughin’ at my jokes but they’d never dare be the one to make ‘em- or stand up and say they thought I was funny- they like to play it safe an’ keep in line. I’m the only one around here with any wits about me_. 

 

 _One_ moment of happiness he'd had- if he had to pick one… was bloody dancing with _Daisy_. Teaching her dances he’d amused O’Brien with as he told her scandalous tales, when she’d laughed at the idea of a Duke getting soppy over _him_ … but it was fun, in a way; Daisy so awkwardly lost in him, not sure what she wanted, and everyone clapping and laughing along. Thomas felt like every other footman, like he looked just like one of the others, not so old and dark, but an eligible young man- and William’s piano playing getting slowly more frustrated if you were listening for it cheered him too. O’Brien arched an eyebrow at him but Thomas was smiling and he didn’t care. _That_ was when Thomas started to think maybe he’d found a home, after all. If only he could secure his footing.

 

Playing with Daisy and William at once was too tempting, as it turned out. And it escalated. He wound up taking Daisy to the fair and all. It was all so _proper_ and _expected_ and it was ridiculous- beyond so- that he should be allowed to take a girl by the hand and lead her in a dance and pull her close- but a _man_ who he cared about- when neither had any interest in anyone around them but were just the same- _indecent_? Daisy was Thomas’ revenge on the world. _See, I’m doing what you want me to do but I don’t mean it- I’m hurting her more this way than if you’d just let me be as I am_.

            “Well who knows; ‘there are more things in Heaven than Earth, Horatio’.” He was just showing off, now, but Daisy loved that he was oh so book smart, and William-

            “Who’s Horatio?”

            Thomas took a long drag of his cigarette.

            “Come on, Daisy.” He took her hand as William’s punishment and hauled her towards the helter-skelter.

 

If Thomas thought the others didn’t guess his ruse… well perhaps he wasn’t as clever as he thought after all. He missed (or chose to ignore) the odd looks, the hushed jokes- of course no one that _cared_ knew- but the others had figured out for themselves that Thomas’ mean-streak didn’t steam from over-confidence.

            “I hope Thomas doesn’t mind the extra work of being Mr Pamuk’s man.”

            “You know Thomas, my Lord; he has to have a grumble. But I gather he cheered up when he _saw_ the gentleman.” An arched eyebrow and a knowing look but not a word muttered about impropriety.

 

But then, perhaps if Thomas hadn’t been quite so prickly, someone would have warned him. _Just because a man is foreign and he doesn’t have a valet…_

            “My man always does this- can you?” The Turk offered his tie.

            Thomas had been carefully looking out for any such sign. He _was_ handsome. And it was his first chance since… and what did they say about people from his part of the world anyway- more liberal? Tuscany can’t have been far from wherever he lived… He edged a little closer.

            “I'm very _attracted_ to the ‘Turkish culture’.” He glanced up to put across his meaning. Treading the waters, maybe- no harm in being careful. But then again, Thomas hadn’t been wrong yet.

            “Then I hope your chance will come to sample it.” Was that a meaningful look? With _that_ soft tone of voice, it must have been. Thomas went with his gut.

            “I hope so too.” A hand to the cheek- nothing so forward but-

            “You forget yourself!”

            He snatched his hand back. _Oh shite oh shite oh shite Thomas you made a mistake how did that happen quick take it back now or-_

            “I ought to report you. But, I will make you an offer.”

 _Aha_. _That_ was something Thomas knew a little about.

 

He didn’t even give Thomas a second glance once he was outside Mary’s room. And Thomas was left outside, alone, with that sickening feeling that his life could be so much better if he hadn’t been born a certain way…

 

The next morning, Thomas closed his eyes outside Mr Pamuk’s door before he walked in, and took a breath. _Hopefully_ he could give him his breakfast without losing appetite for his own if the man tried to talk of his ‘conquest’. Lady Mary not quite such a Lady after all- _urgh_. He opened the door…

 

… and was shocked, certainly.

            Surprised- yes.

            But upset? Not really.

            His secret would die with Mr Pamuk it seemed. Thomas stood for a moment, wondering the appropriate etiquette for such a situation- _Carson probably_. He glanced over his shoulder and took a bite out of Mr Pamuk’s toast from the tray. _Not like he’ll want it._

_Poor Mr Pamuk: vagina-d to death by Lady Mary. Shoulda kept to your own chambers._

            Now, how best to hint at it to the others?

Rightly they were all eager for whatever it was Thomas knew- all of a sudden everyone was his mate.

            “What did you mean when you said Mr Pamuk lived every day like it were his last?”

            “What I said.”

            “I’ll be askin’ the same question later, so you better have an answer ready.”

            Thomas put a hand to the packet of cigarettes in his pockets and gave O’Brien a knowing smile. _You’re the only one who gets that sort of information for free._

            “Thomas.” Mr Carson’s voice caught him off-guard as he left the servant’s hall.

            _Uh oh_. Hopefully bloody William hadn’t-

            “You are aware you are a _servant_ of this establishment?”

            “Uh- Yes, Mr Carson?”

            “Then you will please remember it, and stop _swaggering_ around upstairs as if you owned the place? You are _not_ the Queen of Sheba.”

            Apparently you _can_ see smugness seeping from someone’s being.

            “Yes, Mr Carson.”


	3. Sea Not Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this one is a little different- an entry I won a short story with so I thought I'd use it as a bridge between the next chapters...

So you sign up.

Get yourself placed in medical training before the war actually breaks out, because damned if you’ll be one of the later ones caught in conscription cannon fodder. You volunteer at a hospital- the training could almost be considered ‘fun’ as there isn’t yet the mad rush the upcoming ‘emergency’ (no one is mentioning a war. It’s forbidden) will cause; to rushed training and no smiles allowed. Working in the hospital is easy- cases of gout, broken limbs, what have you. But then all of a sudden England is At War! And you’re terrified but also relieved, because they can’t take a medic from a hospital.

            Relief fades when rapidly the hospital rounds are getting worse; men with limbs missing, faces missing; tears and blood coating the cheeks of those who will never see the light of day- never see anything again as they stumble with sticks and grunt with frustration at the lives they’ll never lead.

            Just when you think it can’t get worse (if you have to stitch another ear back on you might go mad), you’re called up. Hospitals are crowded places, Private. _There’s naught you can do for these people ‘ere, but you can ‘elp your country fighting at the front._

           

Bugger.

 

So you allow yourself to be pulled to a navy battalion, you don’t think about which one, who cares, because it’s better to be under the water, safe from bullets and bombs than to be crawling on the ground like a worm waiting to be stamped on. Sea not land. It’s 1915 how long can this war last? And you’re doing well, in fact you’re promoted- Corporal, that’s a tidy title, not that it does you any good for pay or leave- _there’s a war on man, Wilhelm won’t give you a day off, why should we?_ But lucky for you, there’s at least a month of training to go through before they can let you on a ship (used to be 6 months but there’s no time these days) and that’s what war is. Frozen seconds and hours of nothing and waiting and then infinite timelessness of activity where you’re utterly aware life is lived on borrowed time.

 

You’ve finished your training, on your first mission out, in fact, when suddenly the Sargent Major is pulled aside, and there are whispers in his ear. You all obediently troop out on deck, hands held loosely behind your backs as the Sargent Major is _sorry to inform you chaps but_ _there’s been a change of plan- and that means a change of scenery to you, don’t you worry- would those of you who have passed their weapon handling tests please step to the right?_ And you would lie but the Colour Sargent is looking at you too closely, so you move to the wrong side and find yourself on a different boat, heading to Belgium. Sea not land. Right.

 

Of course what they meant by ‘alternative placement’ is that they’ve run out of bodies to send at the enemy, so they’re pulling all resources to Flanders to keep just enough men in front of German bullets that they don’t have time to jump up and topple us. The lowest chance of survival- and you’ve found yourself here; so close you can see the outlines of the faces of German soldiers on the other side. Or you would if you were stupid enough to stick your neck out.

            You see men shot standing in front of you; when seconds before they’d been throwing their head back to laugh, it’s now thrown back hollow and bloodied. You thank God for the first time that you’re used to keeping your head down.

 

An infection in your foot keeps you in barracks, coordinating medic recces and rescue operations (although most of the men you try to save beg you to just leave them out there), but without an actual blighty there’s no chance of keeping low.

 

And now it’s night-time. A break from continuous fire, an eerie silence- tense and alert in the darkness, but the corners curl with some hint of intermission. You’re on sentry duty, a cigarette between your lips waiting lighting. As you bring the brass lighter up, considering how much the two of you have been through, a jolt of relief and then a wash of pure fear spreads from your brain to your now-trembling hands. Better sea than land maybe, but better homeland than a battlefield.

            You lean your back against the raked mud wall of the trench, light your cigarette and inhale shakily, staring at your hand and the fire glowing brightly within it. You close your eyes, and slowly, moving as quickly as you dare yourself, raise your hand into the eyesight of the enemy, twinkly flame calling.

 

The wait is awful. The second you feel the breeze you want to snatch your hand back, and almost scream in anticipation of what’s coming, heart pounding in your ears. You pray and pray and pray for it to happen quickly, happen now because this waiting is unbearable _come on you bastard come on-_

            Your hand drops the lighter as the force of the metal ripping through flings it forward. Brought to your chest it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, and you’re aware that you probably screamed, but even as you sink down the wall and tears start coming and pain actually begins to whiten your consciousness, you’re still grinning like a madman; shaking and rocking and letting yourself cry for help that will come with promises sweeter than bandages…

And as you grit the edge of expectation for morphine you want to shout, just once (why didn’t you ever learn any German you clot),

            “Thank you.”


	4. A Poke In The Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide

Nothing much happened after that- _well_ , Bates and Thomas’ rivalry thrived, but no surprises there, and O’Brien got up to some more mischief. He was nearly caught stealing wine- oh _and_ there was a war on. Oh yes. But Thomas was back from all that- _Thank God_ and then-

            “Can you give Lieutenant Courtenay his pills?”

            “Of course I can. I’d be glad to.”

 

And _then_.

 

Lieutenant Courtenay lay on his bed, pouting like a toddler, and Thomas was smitten. It felt a little odd to be calling such a young man ‘sir’, but that was war for you. Handsome he was, too. Even under the bandages he looked so… the scars added to him, somehow. Made his ruined eyed brighter. And his hair… Plus, he couldn’t see to stop Thomas looking- Thomas could give him all the adoring and _indecent_ eyes he wanted. He could almost pretend Edward was letting him. An attractive young man with a well-educated tone... He planned little conversations he could have about future women and how they might admire him, to cheer him up, but the conversations were always dodged when he tried to start them. Thomas felt that cruel mistress,  _hope_.

            And something else. Something more than just wanting Edward to want him back- he… and there was that stupid word again, _cared_ about him. _‘Suppose the war does separate the wheat from the chaff after all._ He’d do anything to cheer Edward up, keep him happy- make sure he felt safe and looked after- Thomas wanted him to be happy _regardless_ of what that meant for himself. That was a new one.

            “Who’s Jack?”

            Stupid question. _What d’you want him to say? ‘My lover’?_

            “My younger brother. He means to replace me.” He scoffed. “It’s what he’s always wanted.”

            Thomas couldn’t have held off his look if he tried. The _pain_ in Edward’s voice he… What could he even _say_ that would make up for that?

            “Yeah… well…” An awkward smile twitched at his lips. _You’re better than he ever could be to me. Hang your brother **I** love you, an’ I’m sure I’m not the only one_.

            “I’m sorry. I mustn’t bore you.”

            “Don’t let them walk all over you.” He couldn’t help himself. “You’ve gotta fight your corner.” _And if you won’t_ , _I will_.

            Edward grimaced. “What with?”

            “Your brain.” Speaking so softly wouldn’t do, so he said firmly, “You’re not a victim, don’t let them make you one.”

            “You know, when you talk like that I almost believe you.” _Finally_ he smiled.

            “You should believe me.” He should have stopped there but Thomas was desperate to connect- it was important, somehow...

            “All my life they've…” he chose his words carefully, “pushed me around, just ‘cos I'm different.” He looked away, but Edward couldn’t tell.

            “How? Why are you different?”

 _Don’t trust it Thomas don’t you dare not that soft voice not anything you mad sappy-_ “Never mind. Look… Look, I- I don't know if you're going to see again or not. But I do know you have to fight back.”

            God and his words must have made contact, because Edward reached a hand out to Thomas’ knee, gripping firmly. And Thomas wasn’t visited by desires or any rush of excitement- he put his hand over Edward’s because maybe _someone_ finally understood him, and he was _helping_ someone, and Edward needed a friend, and _Christ the bloody laws are against us I’m here if you need me an’ I…_ all the things he couldn’t say out loud; his care was genuine, and honourable, his feelings went beyond… all that. Squeezing Edward’s hand was all he could manage.

 

Edward’s hair looked so beautiful in the sunlight. Edward’s everything did, but today Thomas had gotten the parting _just right_. He seemed a little less frustrated with the world today, too.

            Thomas snapped to attention and out of his thoughts when the good Doctor showed up. Then the world was ripped out from under Thomas’ feet yet again.

            “Please _don’t_ send me away.”

            Edward’s voice was straining with the effort of staying calm. Thomas could hear it.

            “ _Sir_ -”

            What could Thomas say? He stared at Clarkson for a moment, trying to find an excuse, any words- but… _Please don’t send him away_.

           

“Sir- I only meant to say that Lieutenant Courtenay is _depressed_ -” Back in the Doctor’s office. Thomas had found some good words he could-

            “I will _not_ leave wounded soldiers freezing or sweating under a canvas because one junior officer is depressed!- Yes?!”

 _Lady Sybil to the rescue!_ Thomas could have, and would have willingly married her in that moment.

            But it was all in vain, anyway.

 

Sybil told him what happened.

            “We found Lieutenant Courtney this morning- he’s… he cut his wrists, and he bled out, overnight. We don’t know where he got the razor from but… Corporal- Thomas. I’m so sorry.” She put a hand on his shoulder and Thomas didn’t immediately shake her off.

            “’m fine.”

            “Thomas, I- he was my friend too, you know?” She put a hand to her mouth as her voice betrayed her, taking a deep breath and dropping her shoulders. She wasn’t as collected as she was pretending, but she was making a good show of it.

            “Only we have to- stick together. After this. You can’t… We’ve got to push past this. Soldier on.”

            “I’m fine, I am.” Thomas hadn’t moved- he was stood, as upright as he could get, colour drained from his cheeks. “It’s Lieutenant Courtenay who…” His lip wobbled.

            “Thomas, I’m so sorry.” She pulled him close and hugged him firmly- Thomas gave in to it, standing stock still, but bringing his arms up around her shoulders. He wouldn’t cry. That much he was certain of.

            “Thank you for tellin’ me- I wouldn’t ‘ave… liked to hear it, from anyone else.”

            “We did everything we could, Thomas… we couldn’t have stopped him.” She stepped away after a long moment, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek roughly. “I suppose I better send for someone to…”

            “No, I’ll do it. I don’t mind.”

            Sybil nodded. “If you want to talk… or anything. You know where I am.”

            “Thank you, Lady Sybil. I think I’d like a moment- if y’wouldn’t mind.”

            “Of course. I’ll tell someone you’re collecting his things.” She changed her mind about what she was going to say next and nodded once, promptly, already in tears again by the time she got to the door.

            Thomas lasted until the door closed to his little room. Then he swayed and stumbled backwards, finding support in the wall and sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor. He sat like that for a long moment, willing the tears to come now he was alone but he couldn’t manage it. It felt dishonest- mourning a man who didn’t know you, who if he _had_ known you… _But he did. He knew I was different. An’ he never judged me for it. Now I’ll never know why…_

            That set him off. He sat, crying like a child; shoulders slumped, arms in his lap, and sobbed. Whenever he was upset he forgot he was a fully-grown man and expected to find himself twelve years old in his old bedroom from lifetimes ago, sitting on the floor after his mother died. But his thoughts weren’t on his mother. He wasn’t aware of anything, all the feeling had gone out of his fingers- he just sat and cried and he couldn’t help the selfish feelings that followed- once again Thomas had a glimpse of something worthwhile and once again he’d lost it- _if only you’d bloody said something, rather than toeing the line, you’ve never bothered with that before- and if only you’d bloody told him- at least he’d know he wasn’t alone- he could pity someone more than himself and maybe even if he wasn’t like you, he could have gotten angry rather than sad- you could have given him something but you bloody didn’t and you’re selfish for wishing it hadn’t happened just so **you** could see him again._

 

That one took a little longer to recover from.


	5. Golden Boys Are Just To Be Looked At

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra points if people pick up the references in this one...

He got back to Downton, weaselled his way back into service when he realised he didn’t actually _have_ any other options- _Don’t even think about that bloody black market disaster_. And everything went back to normal. Thomas kept Edward like an old friend in the back of his mind, but time makes all wounds... hurt less... and Thomas soon thought of him as a secret confidant; his memories romanticised- a tragic figure that was Thomas’ and Thomas’ alone. Not even O’Brien knew. It brought him some comfort.

 

Letters kept coming, thought the only one that had really made an impact, was the news that his sister’s friend, what’s-her-name, had been put in prison- for theft, no less. _At least I never got caught_. Thomas sent a letter to her (you never know). She might meet some useful people while she was in the pen. Days passed like moments and all of a sudden it was 1920. Well, with a few…

           

“How was London?”

            “Had fun as a matter of fact.”

 

            _“Oh- oh yes- oh Mr. Earnest- yes”_

_Thomas grunted and tugged the other man’s hair, wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him closer to his lap. A flash of gasped breath, flushed cheek, scratches on his back and bite-marks on his chest..._

 

Thomas shook his head slightly out of it, resumed his glare at Molesley, and carried on walking.

 

… _Happenstances_ in between….

 

Lord knows what Thomas had done to rattle her- but O’Brien was turning into an impossibly irritating cow. It was easier to see the side of her everyone else did when her daggers were turned on you. Now, just because Thomas wasn’t running around singing bloody Alfred’s bloody praises- _he_ was the bad guy. _Huh_.

            He was called ‘Mr Barrow’ now. He straightened his tie in the mirror and tried not to see his father’s face staring back.

The only other offer Thomas had to take up his indulgences, since London, was when- _the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life oh my **God** , Thomas…_

           “They said you were a footman once.”

 _I would like to thank both Heaven and God for giving me this_. Thomas tried not to stare too obviously at the new footman, quite shirtless, in front of him.

“That’s right.”

“So can I come to you if there’s anythin’ I need to know?”

 _That_ smirk made Thomas’ stomach flip, and he fought a double take.

“Certainly. Why not?”

_Thomas Barrow you have the luck of the devil- there’s no **way** he’s your sort but even so… if he wanders round topless more often **I** certainly shan’t be complainin’…_

O’Brien walked past the door, curious what had put a spring in Thomas’ step. She glanced inside. Rolled her eyes. _Your predictability will be the death of you. If I can help it._

She didn’t take long to sow the seeds.

 

“He’s nice that new bloke, isn’t he?”

Thomas frowned. “Why do you say that?” _Everything’s a barb from this one._

“Oh no reason. Only an impression.”

Her eyes followed Jimmy walking down the corridor and flickered back to Thomas in time to catch him at it too. Thomas fumbled for a cigarette and smartly left, with a stern look for added measure.

 

            “Why does this fork go on the right?” Jimmy picked up the object in question and turned it over in his hand.

            “What are you doin’ in here?” Thomas turned, pausing his checking of place settings. He hadn’t noticed Jimmy come in.

            “Jus’ lookin’ around.” Jimmy smiled.

            “Mr Carson will be up in a minute. If I were you I’d _look around_ somewhere else.” Thomas jerked his head to dismiss the impertinent footman, but Jimmy merely leaned over Thomas while he checked the place in front, re-applying the fork perfectly.

            “Is that what you’d do?”

            Thomas straightened up,

“That’s exactly what I would do.” He stared the shorter man down.

            “Then that’s what _I’ll_ do.” A knowing smile, Jimmy inclined his head, and Thomas watched him leave, gaze lingering on the empty doorframe until Carson appeared and shook him out of it.

 

He made his excuses serving evening coffee, displaying a silver creamer he’d conveniently emptied into a plant pot,

            “Need more milk, Mr Carson.”

            “Well go and get it- and be quick about it.”

            Thomas nodded and walked back to the servant’s hall to find Jimmy.

            “Been gasping for a fag.” He said as he pulled out his pack and led the other man outside, where they might not be seen.

 

But in this blossoming _something-_ something else happened...

 

Today was hectic- today was madness- because Lady Sybil was having her baby. _You picked one hell of a time_. It had started slowly; no rush, everything as expected- _Jimmy_ getting fairly bawdy over childbirth but what else was to be expected from a young man? Then, dinnertime the next day, and it was time- the baby was coming! _Enough to put you off your food._

            Thomas and Lady Sybil hadn’t spoken much since the war, but private smiles and little nods had become something of a comfort. Thomas was quietly very interested in the child- so news of ‘concerns’ made him feel uneasy _. Big London doctors make mistakes, jus’ like small Yorkshire ones…_

            Still. Despite doctors’ bickering as the evening dragged on, everything was fine- Ivy refused to go to bed before it was born, and Carson found the loyalty touching enough to let the rest of them stay up and wait too – by the sounds of it, all would be resolved. The clench in Mr Carson’s jaw was concerning, but he of all people downstairs _would_ be worried. Thomas wasn’t much of one for religion but he sent of a quick prayer all the same before he made his way to the servant’s hall

            _Dear God. Er, it’s me. Thomas. Probably not your favourite- but I’m not askin’ for me. Lady Sybil’s a good person, an’ believes in you an’ all so jus’… make sure her an’ the baby are alright. Um. Thank you._

            He shook his head and settled next to Jimmy for a long night. _Utterly ridiculous_.

 

Morning light faded in and the excitement of waiting had long since passed; everyone was crabby and desperate for the thing to be over and done with so they could turn in for at least an hour before the mad rush of everyday Downton kicked in. Cake was left uneaten on the table

            “Show us a card trick, Jimmy.” Thomas was running out of options- he’d asked at least four times already, but Jimmy’s card tricks seemed to be in inexhaustible supply. They stood as Carson entered.           

            “That’s it- the baby is born.” _Bloody hell is that a **smile** on Carson’s face_. “It’s a girl.” appreciative coos echoed across the room. “…Now you can all go to bed.”

            _Well thank God for that_.

            “Good news.” Thomas had to admit he was feeling a little cheery (a warning sign he’d later recognise), and stubbed his smoke as he beamed at Jimmy.

            “D’you like Lady Sybil?” Jimmy looked _concerned_. Then again, Thomas wasn’t one for showing affection.

            “I do. We worked together in the hospital, during the war. So I know her best of all of ‘em really.” He was feeling relief, tiredness, and happiness for Sybil, and for a moment he forgot the world he lived in. “She’s a lovely person. Like you.” He clasped Jimmy’s arm with another wide grin. Jimmy arched an eyebrow.

 _Don’t think there are many that’d call me ‘lovely’_. _He must be off his rocker- thought it was only women that got all broody over babies…_

“Mr Barrow- he’s so familiar with everyone all the time.” _Certainly with me he is. And Lady Sybil too, apparently._ He was hoping O’Brien would echo him back. _Just to confirm there’s nothing out of sorts_.  

“Why what are you implying? Nothing unseemly I hope.”

“No. No nothing like that.” Jimmy looked away. No point getting the man in trouble, after all, _especially_ if he’d be the one implicated in the fall out. He cleared his throat and changed his mind, ending the conversation and hoping O’Brien would take the hint.

_You shouldn’t have said anything. Anyway, I can’t be blamed for flirting- I always flirt with everyone, me- but not with blokes and… well, not like that- it’s just… everyone does it. No man’s ever… challenged it. Before. He shouldn’t read that far into a little friendliness- there’s no telling with his type but how was I to know? And how can I tell him… I don’t encourage him. Do I? Why do I? A fellah can like a man without… Christ, Jimmy._

 

The next day passed as usual. Everyone was allowed to sleep in- the family did, and Carson was in too good a mood to argue propriety’s part. So the day was actually a pleasant one- everyone seemed in slightly high spirits. The family were what could almost be termed ‘chatty’ with the staff, Thomas wasn’t entirely a pain in the arse to Molesley when he could help it, and the day faded into a pleasant evening with Carson reminding everyone that it was _business_ _as usual_ from then on. Still, no one had expected it to last anyway.

            Thomas went to bed with something new flickering- the kind of feelings he’d been painfully avoiding for the last two years but… _something_ about Jimmy made him forget all that. He was an infatuated schoolboy and felt every inch of it- it had never been like this with his past… dalliances. He’d kept pushing his luck and pushing his luck, but Jimmy didn’t push back. Sure, he was smart and formal in public, like you’d expect, but when they were alone together… really they got on quite well. If he didn’t flirt so _obviously_ with Ivy, if he didn’t make it so clear it wasn’t _courtship_ he wanted from her… Thomas might have made a move- it had felt like the right day to do it, too- everyone in high spirits. _Ah well_. _Jimmy didn’t seem to find much fancy in the baby anyway- tomorrow is a good a day as any- if the opportunity presents itself, maybe… an’ I can claim excitement…_

He was goaded to sleep by pleasant thoughts.

 

Thomas was woken by a knock on his door.

            “What?” He rolled over, groggy, to find the room in darkness. “What d’you want?”

A vague idea that Jimmy was making a night-time visit took hold, but he wouldn’t _knock_. _Would he?_

            “Mr Barrow?” That was Alfred’s voice. “I think you’d better come downstairs."

            _Something_ twisted in Thomas' gut.

 

He pulled on a gown and shuffled downstairs to meet the bleary rest- his hair was probably a mess but the others were no better; some wearing blankets over their nightclothes. Jimmy gave him a ‘ _what’s all this’_ look when he walked in. For some reason he elected to stand near Anna, because… _well, just in case.._. he had an uneasy feeling… _the only thing that could have gone wrong between bedtime and now…_

      Mr Carson was sat at the head of the head of the table, head in his hands. He didn’t look up until everyone was present. A sense of unease built in the room, which made the waiting worse as he stood and walked near to Mrs Hughes.

      “Everyone… I’ve gathered you here because…” _Christ the look on his face_ … “Because. It appears-… there has been a complication with- _ahem_ -… that is to say, Lady Sybil-” he swallowed. “There has been a great tragedy; a complication with the birth, and Lady Sybil- did not.” Everyone already knew already “Make it. I know this will come as a great shock and sorrow to you all, and I don’t mind if… you wish to remain and… talk to each other for a… but sleep is the best cure for woes and… full day’s work… we need to support the family in this tragic time…” his voice faded to a ghost of itself.

_But that’s impossible she was fine the baby was born what happened why didn’t they save her she can’t be- there were two bloody doctors there…_

Everyone’s mind went through the same questions in different orders but no one broke the silence. Not even Jimmy.

            _No no no every bloody time I- why did I pray for her- I… that’s not possible she can’t be… she was **fine**. _ Thomas looked at the floor, a vague sensation he was going to be sick creeping into his throat. He’d never had a _friend_ die on him before. _And she wasn’t really your friend, was she_? Stunned silence from everyone else broke into sharp intakes of breath; Anna was doing her best not to burst into tears, and Daisy said as gently as she could manage,

            “Is there anything we should do, Mr Carson?”

            Mr Carson looked like he was being held upright solely by Mrs Hughes’ presence at his side.

            “Carry on, Daisy.” The break in his voice sent everyone over the edge of whatever precipice they were stepping on. “As we all must.”

Mrs Hughes looked stony, her face held together by practicality and a desire to ensure the wellbeing of her children before herself. She hugged Daisy closely.

 

Thomas left the second Mr Carson walked out of the room- Jimmy noticed, but what could  _he_ do?…

            Thomas just needed to be out of the room, because he _was_ going to cry, obviously he was- flashbacks of the comfort Sybil had given him the last time something like this… it was too much. He didn’t even make it to the stairs; he could tell if he tried he’d wind up curled up and bawling on the landing. Better to save face and find a quiet corner.

 

He put his hand against the wall, shoulders shaking, making pathetic little sobbing noises interspersed with gulps of breath to try to try and keep himself quiet. He didn’t hear Anna creep up behind him.

            “Thomas?”

            The care in her voice made it worse. Thomas leaned away from her, grappling desperately to pull himself together. He put a hand in his pocket and turned back towards her, strands of hair falling over his eyes in a pitiful bid for the allusion of control.

            He took a few breaths to make sure his voice didn’t squeak.

            “Don’t know why I’m cryin’, really.” It didn’t work- his voice betrayed him. “She wouldn’t’ve noticed if I’d died.”

            “You don’t mean that.” Anna said it quietly. Finally her constant softness for Thomas worked; it made Thomas feel awful to the pit of his stomach; so upset he’d never have friends like that, that he’d always been such a bad person, that no one cared about him- even that he was thinking of _himself_ when he was supposed to be grieving. The pain of Sybil's... _passing_ - brought every other bad thought to life but at the same time, Anna’s consoling soothed him, a little. He gave in to playing ‘little brother’, and shook his head miserably.

            “No.” almost an apology he said it so quietly. “No, I don’t.” Anna stood closer, looking at him not with pity, but _sadness_.

            “In my life, I can tell you; not many ‘ave been kind to me. She was one of the few.” He found strength in that, at least.

            Anna didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. She just stepped forward, stroking her hand on Thomas’ arm and shoulder, other hand rubbing circles in his back, and lay her head against the hand on his arm. Words were unnecessary- words were messy, words had all been said.

 

Thomas immediately stepped away when Mrs Hughes appeared, _no emotion here, oh no, I was jus’ comfortin’ Anna Mrs Hughes... please don’t look at me like this_.

            But she bid them both a gentle good night, taking in Thomas’ stoic dishevelment. Something about a man so upset he’s untidy, looking down makes him seem small; brings out the image of the boy he once was, in need of care and comfort. Mrs Hughes wished she could do more. She had seen many cocky little boys with insecurities the same as him- but she knew… she knew him. And in this moment, she could only smile sadly and offer a few small words. Anna seemed to be doing a good job. She’d take care of him.

 

It did make a difference. Thomas stopped resisting Anna.

            “Cheer up, Mr Barrow. A long face won’t solve anything.” Tactless Alfred struck again.

            Luckily, whatever crippling remark Thomas would have struck out with was silenced.

            “Leave him alone. He knew Lady Sybil better than the rest of us.”

            “’cept you.” Thomas softly returned Anna’s smile. “We were the two that really knew her.” _We_.

            “I’d say your grief speaks well of her.” Jimmy tried to add his support, _anything to undermine Alfred_ -

            _Because if even heartless Thomas Barrow would rather someone were alive, then she must have been great indeed_.

            Thomas wasn’t thinking. “Thank you. Thank you for sayin’ that.” He needed comfort and it was stupid- he wasn’t consciously aware he’d grabbed Jimmy’s hand until it had happened. Grief stops you thinking about anything as silly as _etiquette_.

 

O’Brien wore him down. It was bound to happen. There’s only so much hope you can feed a starving man before he starts to swallow it.

            What brought him to Jimmy’s door _That Night_? A combination of stupidity and that dammed plague, hope. He didn’t think he could handle it if he was wrong and alone _again_. But he couldn’t be. Jimmy wouldn’t have been so… when they were alone- if… Thomas decided hesitating outside was going to lead to more trouble than going in. He shut the door behind him carefully and perched next to Jimmy on the bed. He took a breath, taking a moment to watch Jimmy’s sleeping face for any sign of consciousness.

            “Jimmy.” He whispered it so quietly he might not have said it at all. He swallowed, hesitating a hand over the other man’s face, terrified it’d be bitten off. But why was he looking so perfectly asleep, so completely oblivious and innocent? _God, at least I won’t ‘ave to try and explain m’self- simple yes or no… he seems to understand, in any case_ as he leant over, watching for any sign of life, closing his eyes at the last second as his mouth met Jimmy’s.

            Jimmy felt consciousness tugging at him, ignored it. He had the sudden sense _something_ was on his bed and struggled to pull himself into wakefulness- _lips somethin’s- what the bloody hell_ \- _Thomas? O’Brien was bloody right- you’re…_ if he gave in to Thomas’ advances, it was because he wasn’t awake enough to consider what he was doing.

“Oh my-”

            Panic seized Jimmy’s stomach before he knew what was happening- why was _Alfred_ here- he was goin’ to think-

            Thomas pulled away, caught red-handed and glanced at Jimmy- working his mouth to some excuse- but Jimmy shoved him roughly off the bed, kicking the duvet off and scrambling to his feet,

            “Get off! Thomas, get the bloody ‘ell off me!”

            Thomas blinked and glanced between the other two- _no, Jimmy don’t throw me under the bloody bus he’s not worth it-_

“Alfred, it’s not what you think-” Jimmy was _livid_.

            Thomas kept his eyes on Jimmy. _Screw Alfred- it’s not fair- he can do what he likes_ \- “Don’t do that. Please.” It came out sounding pathetic but Thomas had been caught short.

            “What are you doing? _Why_ are you in ‘ere?!”

            Jimmy was furious and Thomas felt a sudden clenching in his stomach- maybe Jimmy wasn’t just reacting badly because Alfred had walked in… maybe… _no that’s not- that can’t be_ -

            “But what about the things y’said?” He insisted finally, desperate that he hadn’t just made all this up- O’Brien hadn’t actually gotten into his head because this was _bad,_ earth-shatteringly _bad_

            “I said nothing except get out.” He took another look at Thomas, finally able to take stock of what had happened, and shoved him out the door. “Go on! Get out- Thomas.” Already the heat had gone out of his voice at the mention of Thomas’ name. He shouldn’t have panicked- he should have stayed calm and explained- if bloody Alfred hadn’t been- _I could have just told him to stop bein’ so… without makin’ a scene- an’ then there wouldn’t have been a fuss but what bloody right did he have comin’ in here while I was asleep- an’ now I’ve got to convince bloody Alfred…_ He could hear Mr Carson outside but ignored it- pacing the room- putting a chair up against the door handle before he tried to sleep again. Not that he got much sleep that night, his heart hammering in his chest. _Christ bein’ pretty is a bloody curse- why does everyone want a bloody piece of me? Don’t they think I get bloody sick of being leered over…_

 

Thomas was stuck with the image of Alfred, turning skull-like as he glared- seeing what Thomas would do next; go back to Jimmy’s room, or try to explain himself. Thomas walked to his room and shut the door.

            He slid down so he was sat on the floor and _fear_ flooded his senses. _You’re alright, Alfred won’t say anthin’- I could bloody explain to Jimmy if only Alfred… he won’t say anythin’ either, you’re alright- it were all a mistake_. Ha. A mistake. Thomas put his forehead on his knee and sobbed. _Not again not a-bloody-gain it’s not fair_.

 

Jimmy managed to get a word in with Alfred before breakfast, hissing that he had nothing to do with it and he wasn’t in any way _that way inclined_.

            “Mr Barrow- he’s a bloody pervert that’s what he is- an’ he came on to me while I was sleepin’- and don’t you dare think otherwise cos you know I’d never-”

            “All I know is- I don’t want any part of it. Are y’gonna tell Mr Carson?”

            Jimmy bit his lip. “Nah. Can’t do that- don’t want to make a fuss- I’ll tell Barrow not to come within a hundred miles of me, mind. But I don’t want anyone else to know about it- I feel bloody sick just thinkin’… what good will it do if he leaves. He won’t come near me now, an’ I don’t want to be thought of as ‘that bloke’ while I’m ‘ere.”

            Long story short, Thomas’ attempt at toast appeasement did not go well.

            “What is it? What’s going on?” Ever observant Anna spoke at Thomas’ elbow, and Thomas looked at his plate. _Not my place to say- for God’s sake Anna-_

Mrs Hughes had noticed too. “James?” James barely turned to look, and shrugged.

            “Nothin’.”

            Mrs Hughes’ lips thinned. “Alfred?”

            “Ask Mr Barrow.”

            Thomas never thought _Alfred’s_ glare would be the one to pin him to the spot. “It’s nothin’. Really.” Usually lies slipped off his tongue- but his lack of confidence spelt out the tension in the air clearer than the way he innocently sipped his tea.

            “It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

            _Christ, Mr Molesley- does everyone want to have a bloody go then?_ Thomas glanced at Jimmy, if he could just catch his eye- explain himself- reassure him… Jimmy turned as Ivy walked in.

            “Oh, Ivy! Never mind the toast, you look _very_ tasty yourself this morning.” He pulled a smirk to his face.

            “ _What_ did you say?” Mr Carson’s incredulous tone greeted them- Mrs Hughes glaring quietly from his side. Jimmy’s confidence lost a bit of steam- and Alfred wasn’t looking pleased.

            _Ya boo sucks to be you, Alfred_. “Can’t a red blooded man compliment a pretty girl?” He glanced at Alfred. Mr Carson frowned.

            “Not at breakfast for Heaven’s sake.” The smile was wiped off both Jimmy and Ivy, the later turned and fled. _Typical_. Alfred stood to go and glanced at- _of course bloody O’Brien I bloody knew it_ -

            Thomas glanced at Jimmy while Mr Carson lectured him and Jimmy held his gaze, sipping his tea and arching an eyebrow.

_I’m not havin’ you draggin’ up anythin’ untoward. You don’t say a word an’ I won’t neither._

 

And for a short while it was alright- sure, Jimmy didn’t let Thomas alone with him at any point, but while Mr Branson’s brother had them all giggling away Jimmy and Thomas sat opposite one another giggling too. It was fine- eye contact happened but wasn’t held. Even Alfred had cooled off a little, or refrained from openly glaring at Thomas across the table. _Lord knows what he’s told O’Brien. Lord knows what she’ll… no- she wouldn’t dare…_

            “And what will I change into? A pumpkin?”

            Carson’s glare stopped the stifled sniggers becoming anything more but Jimmy’s amusement shone off his face. He even arched an eyebrow at Thomas and inclined his head at the awkward silence that followed- Thomas managed to keep the gratitude and relief mostly off his face. _Business as usual then- thank God for Jimmy and his pride._

            “Mr Barrow, a word.” Mr Carson beckoned Thomas to his office. Jimmy watched him go, shooting a small shrug at Thomas’ petrified stare. _Don't look at me_. It faded to a frown when Thomas left. Alfred wouldn’t have… _that bloody meddlin’ arse. Still, s’ppose I can’t complain- I’m sorry Mr Barrow but it was your fault- you shouldn’t ‘ave come to my room_. _Maybe next time you’ll think to ask a man before you try an’ get all handsy..._

 

            “Mr Barrow.” Mr Carson sat at his desk, Thomas stood in front of him nervously. He didn’t seem to know where to begin. “Alfred has come and spoken to me- you have the right to know what about.”

            Thomas didn’t reply, which was answer enough, in a way.

            “He says that he saw you and James, that is to say, _you_ in James’ room, last night. He says when he walked in he found the two of you…" Mr Carson cleared his throat. "In an _embrace_ , of some kind.” Thomas was doing his best to look at the floor but Mr Carson sought his eye contact and held it.

            “’s true.” Thomas mumbled.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “I said.” He lifted his head. “It’s true. I mean- Alfred wasn’t lyin’- but I…” Thomas cleared his throat.

            “I don’t need to tell you that this is a _criminal_ offence.” Mr Carson’s tone was firm, and slightly incredulous.

            Thomas fought to find words- the right ones- the sort of ones that Carson could hear. “We hadn’t… _done_ anythin’.”

            “But you were hoping to do something if Alfred _hadn’t_ come in!”

            “It’s not against the law to _hope_ , is it?” Thomas’ face spelt out cheeky-schoolboy for a split second.

            “Don’t you get clever with me!” Carson immediately responded with the stern-father part, though he added in a much severer tone “When you should be _horsewhipped_!” He regretted the remark- and looked away for a moment. Thomas stared, trying to find something to counter it. He _hated_ that it stung to hear from Carson what he expected from everyone else.

            Mr Carson sighed, and tried his best to offer Thomas an out. “Do you have a defence? Am I… _mistaken_ in any part of this?”

            But Thomas was tired of sweeping himself under the rug. For a split-second he entertained the idea, but prattish-adolescent Thomas won out. As always. “Not really, Mr Carson.” His tone was petulant. “As for a defence… what can I say? I was…” he didn’t have the nerve to meet Mr Carson’s eye for long and blinked away, “very _drawn_ to him, and I got the impression that he felt the same way.” When he looked back, Carson was looking at the opposite wall. “I was wrong.” The words tasted bitter.

            “It seems an odd mistake to make.” Carson tried to humour him. Thomas refused to feel comforted by it.

            “When you’re like me, Mr Carson…. You have to read the signs as best you can because _no one_ dares speak out.” Pathetic, really. Trying to get someone like Mr Carson to understand- much as he was trying to de-emphasize the… _carnal_ nature of his loneliness and anguish.

            Mr Carson’s defences kicked in. “I do not wish to take a tour of your revolting word.”

            The word ‘revolting’ hit Thomas like a slap- Carson wasn’t trying to understand _Thomas_ he was trying to reconcile it to _himself_. That was what Carson really thought of him- he was just too true an Englishman to say it. 

            “No.” _Of course not_. Thomas looked down, the reality of what Carson knowing would actually mean for him- for _Jimmy_ if he didn’t… swirls of fear and anger and painful unknowing kept a knot in his throat and hitched his breath. He defended Jimmy, as best he could, told the truth, no less.

            “… He’d be within his rights to report you to the police.”

            The thought hadn’t dared occur in Thomas’ mind until Carson said it. He could actually go to _prison_ for this- for a stupid kiss- and what they did to blokes like him in prison…

            Carson seemed to register this, and an inkling of his begrudging paternal nature shone through. “Although I’m quite sure it won’t come to that.” He indicated his head, the closest to acceptance Thomas was going to get. Thomas nodded and left, taking his excuse from Mrs Hughes’ entrance.

            Mr Carson sat for a long moment, his responses and words to Mrs Hughes on autopilot as he tried to sort his beliefs from the facts, and vice versa- trying to make sense of the man who’d stood in front of him.

            “Human nature’s a funny business, isn’t it?” He said finally, reconciling himself that Thomas couldn’t _choose_ how he was.

            “Now, why didn’t the poets come to you, Mr Carson? They’d’ve saved themselves a lot of time and trouble.”

 

And then, impossibly, things got _worse_.


	6. Thomas Catches A Break... Or Does He?

Thomas sat outside, in the drizzling rain and the certainty that the last ten years of his life had been a waste. He had no plan, no family (because damned if his sister and her husband would take him in), no money- _nothing_. He was exactly where he had been twelve years ago- and yet, worse off: because now he was older and he had no account or mark he’d even existed the last ten years. He’d been turned to nothing because of a stupid mistake- and it was always _this_ that brought him down. He’d tried it every other way and _still_ here he was.

            He was as content as one could be, crying alone in the rain, until Mrs Hughes chanced to be outside-

            “’Shock and disgust’? My, my. I think I have to hear it now. Come on.” She soothed the lip-wobbling, put an arm around him, and brought him inside. She gave him a blanket and a warm cup of tea, which Thomas fondled rather than drank, and then stared into it to avoid watching any trace of care being wiped from Mrs Hughes’ face, when she heard what he had to say.

            “Now, why don’t you start at the beginning?” She waited patiently as Thomas gathered courage.

            “Well… well the thing is, Mrs Hughes. I’m not jus’ leavin’ ‘cos Mr Bates is ready to come back…”

            “What’s happened?” She searched his face, saw it tighten, his posture held together by nerves. “Thomas- what’s happened?”

            Thomas put his teacup to the side, wouldn’t meet Mrs Hughes’ eye, and put his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. Mrs Hughes stood and put her arms around him, rubbing his back soothingly.

      “Thomas just _tell_ me. I can’t help you otherwise. And nothing you can say is going to shock or disgust me, I promise.”

      “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Thomas wiped his eyes on the back of his hands and looked at the floor. Mrs Hughes didn’t move her hand from his shoulder. “The reason I’m _goin’_ is because… because _Jimmy_ wouldn’t be comfortable if I stayed.”

      “What has that little rascal done now?”

      “He hasn’t _done_ anythin’. I…” He swallowed. “It were my fault, I… I like- that is to say I…” he cleared his throat “I _liked_ Jimmy- as- as men _shouldn’t_ like other men. I…” He glanced up; Mrs Hughes’ face didn’t change. “That is- I mean that I… I’m-”

      “I know quite well what you mean, Thomas. Is _that_ what you were so worried I’d start at?”

      Thomas nodded slowly, sinking his head back into his hands. “I know I’m a monster, an’ I shouldn’t be upset about gettin’ what I deserve…”

      “Now you stop talking that that this instant. We’re all born the way we’re born and there’s no shame in that- but surely James can’t have made this fuss just by you saying you _liked_ him?”

      “No, I- much worse than that. I…” he cleared his throat. “I went into his room, and while he was sleepin’ I… I only _kissed_ him, Mrs Hughes, I swear I wasn’t tryin’ to…. To touch him, or anythin’ like it, only I… an’ then _Alfred_ came in, an’ saw us and Jimmy panicked- I thought jus’ because he’d been seen, but I know better, now. An’ Mr Carson- he…” Thomas looked at his hands. “He told me it was a good time for me to be leavin’, what with Mr Bates ready to work again, but then…”

            Mrs Hughes’ eyes narrowed.

            “He told me Jimmy insisted I leave without a reference- an’ I know he wouldn’t do that- he’s not- not _cruel_ like that, an’ I hoped he hadn’t… so now I don’t know what to do.” Thomas’ voice broke. “I’m leavin’ with ten years of my life unaccounted for, an’ I’ll never get a job now, an’ I…”

      “You stop fretting this instant.” She squeezed his shoulder and let him have a moment to collect himself.

      “’m sorry I’m presentin' m'self so poorly, Mrs Hughes, I know it’s not gentlemanly…”

      “Well when someone treats you in an ungentlemanly manner, as Mr Carson has, it’s perfectly understandable to respond in kind- turned out on your ear without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’- you poor thing. I wish you’d told me sooner.” She gently pushed the cup of tea back into Thomas’ hands, and moved a biscuit from the plate on the side to Thomas’ saucer. Thomas sipped his tea as Mrs Hughes sat back across from him.

      “Now, don’t you worry, I’ll be having a word with Mr Carson about all of this, and to James too, if I have to- I won’t be letting a man like yourself be turned out, after all the years you’ve been here.”

      “Thank you, Mrs Hughes. I don’t deserve your kindness, I’ve never had anythin’ nice to say to you- and I don’t know how to thank you for this, I… I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t help me…”

      “You just collect yourself together and drink your tea, I think you’ve had quite enough emotional outbursts for one day.” She sat and smiled at him, while Thomas sipped his tea and finished his biscuit, a little colour coming back into his cheeks as he dared to feel a little hope for his future.

 

Thomas was eventually handed the title ‘under butler’. He’d clung on by the skin of his teeth, and of all things _cricket_ had saved him. Well, cricket and _her ladyship’s soap_. That old witch was firmly under his thumb, now, though it was doubtful she’d be hanging about for long with Thomas leering over her.

             Thomas was right, as usual- she scarpered less than a year later- and not only was seeing the back of the wicked woman pleasant, but it also opened up some interesting opportunities, if one were the right sort of man to pursue them...

 

            “Miss O’Brien upped and left.”

            “ _Never_.” That put a smile on his face, Thomas rushed off to tell Jimmy.

 

The good news only got better. Thomas received a letter from his sister, a regular update; how she was trying for a baby, and how their father had actually asked after Thomas the other day, but what interested Thomas was the footnote, almost left out,

_And today Phyllis was released- she’s staying with us for a few weeks until she gets back on her feet. Poor dear, she’s gotten so slender- but we’ll put that right, as best we can._

            She’d started refusing the money Thomas sent her- insisting she could look after herself and that Thomas was to worry about making sure _he_ was taken care of. Thomas tapped the corner of the letter against the table as he thought- his mind sticking on his sister’s friend, for some reason. _Well she was a housemaid before she was sent to prison… and we need someone to replace O’Brien… if I can’t **make** friends, I suppose I’ll have to find them_.

            He brought an ally to Downton.

And _then_ a trip to America- why look a gift horse in the mouth?

            Although, it was a near disaster: he’d had to drive. Five years since the last time he’d been behind the wheel hadn’t helped him, and Lord Grantham was clinging to the interior as though his life depended on it,

           “Sorry, m’Lord, I thought they’d have a chauffer waitin’- apparently they drive themselves over here… hold on- I think I’ve got the hang of it…”

           “Barrow! Stop the car! Barrow- please! Just stop! _Oh my_ \- Stop!”

On his half days he wandered the streets, all the darkened alleyways, and found seedy little gambling rings with darkened back rooms where he could get… well. Everything he wanted. So long as he never gave his real name he’d be away in a week and no one would be able to find him after.

“You’ve played this before, haven’t you, sir?”

            Thomas glanced at the brown tufty-haired lad in front of him and considered. Perhaps another time. He glanced around the room and found a young, golden haired boy with a wicked smirk. Cheekbones were a little sharp, frame a little scrawny- but he’d do. He sidled up and offered his most charming smile.

            “What’s a lad like you doin’ in a place like this then?”

            “Just lookin’ for some fun.” the blond helped himself to one of Thomas’ cigarettes. “Mr…?” The Brooklyn accent didn’t help him, but as the only port in the storm, he’d be perfect.

Thomas took him out the back alley, pressed the lad’s front against the brick, and could quite pretend what he needed too.

            It did make his re-joining with Jimmy a tad awkward. Jimmy was kind enough not to notice.


	7. The Light At The End Of The Tunnel Has Been Switched Off Due To Budget Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last itty-bitty build-up chapter before the big one, I promise! Enjoy Thomas feeling happy and content with himself while you can! Trigger warnings ahead for depression and homophobia and self harm and suicide! Yay!

So Thomas had brought an ally to Downton. An ally that didn’t last. How anyone could choose bloody _Molesley_ over himself- Baxter was as useful to him as a chocolate teapot. What irritated Thomas more was that she insisted on trying to be his ‘friend’. Well, he didn’t need friends- now Jimmy had forgiven him- he had Jimmy. Jimmy, the only man who’d ever bothered to try and understand him, who’d always nudge him under the table, always wink across the hall- the one person who was on Thomas’ side, no matter what. What did he need Baxter for when he had that?

            The others could have their little jokes about Thomas being lofty, but what did he care when he had a deck of cards, a pack of cigarettes, a bundle of sordid letters, and a few smuggled bottles of liquor; that was Thomas and Jimmy to a ‘t’…

 

            “Well this is it, then.”

            “There’s somethin’ I wanna say.” Jimmy looked up, pausing to try and find the right words. “I’m sorry I put you through all that trouble.” _To put it lightly_.

            “Forget it.” Thomas twitched a small smile. “It’s in the past.”

            “You’ve been a _good_ friend to me, Thomas...” Jimmy only used Thomas’ first name when he was being serious. Thomas' stomach twisted. “...If anyone had told me I’d’ve been friends with a…” a stream of nasty sniggered names whispered themselves in Jimmy’s ear and he looked back up, forced eye contact so Thomas would know he didn’t believe them. “… a- man like you, I’d’ve not ‘ave believed them.”

            Thomas swallowed and nodded slightly. _Men like me. That’s what I am- not like you…_

            “But we have been friends.” Jimmy pushed as much meaning into the words as he could, hurt by the way Thomas nodded sadly and looked at his feet. Thomas _had_ to understand him, now, at the end of it- if they never met again…

            “And I’m sad to see the back of you. I _am_.” It was already time to leave- how was it already time, he’d been given the morning to pack up and make arrangements… well the cart was packed and this was _goodbye_. And he could _hear_ how restrained Thomas was trying to be, and could _hear_ how much that wasn’t working in his head.

            “… You could always write.” Thomas wouldn’t meet his eye. He had that _stupid_ smile on his face- the hopeful one, the one he always wore when Jimmy was around, and Jimmy…

            “I’m not much of a letter writer.” He tried to keep his tone light, saw a flicker of something across Thomas’ face, and immediately promised, “I’ll do my best.” God but _anything_ to keep that look off Thomas’ face, anything to stop Jimmy realising that by leaving he was taking Thomas’ only friend and companion with him… Jimmy forced himself onwards, wanting nothing more than to run away, shake Thomas' hand and pretend leaving meant nothing but he _couldn’t_ because he knew Thomas _needed_ this, and he truly did care...

            “And in case we don’t meet again…” _keep going you bastard_ , “I hope you find some happiness.” Thomas’ eyes flickered away, Jimmy almost frowned.

            “I do, _truly_.” _Thomas, please understand that I mean this, I couldn’t stand this if I didn’t care, please don’t make me…_

            Thomas nodded, and said, “I want the same for you too, Jimmy.” softly.

            “Well that’d be dandy.” Jimmy’s lip quirked in a smile, the irony of leaving the happiness he had found in Thomas not lost on him. That at least wiped the wounded look off Thomas’ face for a moment- but the smile didn’t last long.

            Jimmy couldn’t stomach it any longer- he _hated_ goodbyes- hated the feeling of anything ending, and shifted on his feet, ducking his head. “I best be getting off.” He said as gently as he could, and met Thomas’ eyes as he offered his hand.

            Thomas shook firmly, Jimmy squeezed everything he hadn’t managed to say into Thomas’ palm, not breaking the moment, not looking away- burning his final impressions of his friend into his memory before he clambered in, tipped his cap, and left Thomas alone in the courtyard. No more questioning- no more scandal- no more Thomas’ lingering glances and careful tiptoeing. No discovering what any of it meant- if there was _something_ there, just goodbye and that was the end of it.

            For the rest of the day Thomas was snappy and rude, much back to his former self; boiling over with an anger he couldn’t explain, and with the only person who he thought would listen, gone.

 

Jimmy did mean to write- he drafted hundreds of letters, and sent a few short ones- the ones he could bear to be read, but the further away he got from Thomas, back into the real world where some things just weren’t possible, the more he wanted to forget Downton had ever happened- it was too painful otherwise. Thomas’ masked loneliness in the equally short responses didn’t escape Jimmy's notice either, and he ached with need to reassure him, poke and prod a smile out of him or even spend an evening playing pontoon with him again. But he couldn’t- there was nothing he could do- he couldn’t be there- so maybe it was better Thomas forgot too. The world just wasn’t on their side, so there was no point in fighting it.

            Jimmy spent a few nights in the seedy parts of London, blowing all the money he had left on liquor and women, until he felt back to himself, back to Jimmy; the man everyone was charmed by, an island unto himself. He waited for Thomas to write him and let him know he was alright.

 

Where Thomas had been kind with Jimmy, had learnt to show a softer side to himself, bitter isolation had kicked back into work the moment he was gone. Old wounds re-opened, and defences were raised again. Thomas sat in the servant’s hall, focused on the glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand, paying only vague attention to the bustle of the room around him, until his name was mentioned. Twice.

            “Mr Barrow- Mr Barrow… you know I hate to ask, but it is dinner time, and now that James has gone- could you please help me carry this up?”

            “I wasn’t aware an under butler was required to carry out the services of a footman, Mr Molesley.”

            “I know, I know, Mr Barrow- I know it’s beneath you but please, just this once, I’ve been so busy and...”

            “Mr Barrow, stop _trying_ to be difficult.” Mrs Patmore planted the next prepared dish on the table as Daisy hurried to the other end of the room to get started on desert.

            “You’re right, Mrs Patmore. I am tryin’ to be difficult.” Thomas stubbed his smoke and stood, adjusting his jacket as he swept towards the tray, “Clearly I have no right to be. Mr Molesley, or Joseph as we _should_ be calling ‘im, is uncomfortable with the tasks assigned to him.” Mr Molesley, who’d been hesitant to begin with, looked like he’d rather have invited a crocodile to help- Mr Carson’s workload penitence must be catching up with him. Thomas continued, “And why is that, Mr Molesley? I thought you’d‘ve forgotten by now you used to be a valet, a butler even. Perhaps you’re just sore your master’s death couldn’t have been more convenient for you and 'appened to someone else.”

            “Mr Barrow, that’s quite enough of that.” Mrs Hughes bustled into the room and thrust a tray into his hands, “You’ll do as you’re told for the fine running of this house because that’s what you’re _paid_ to do- unless you take issue with that as well?”

            “I take no issues, Mrs Hughes- I just thought Mr Molesley would appreciate my position; being forced to do somethin’ beneath him…” he marched out of the kitchen, only to turn and add, “only it’s not beneath him now, is it?” before heading up to the dining room with a flicker of pleasure at the downcast look he’d seen on Molesley’s face.

 

“Mr Molesley don’t you take anything Mr Barrow says to heart- he’s just a bully and you’re best paying him no heed- he’s only after a rise out of you.”

            “He’s right, though.” Molesley picked up his tray, mouth a firm line as he fought to appear strong in front of the kitchen staff. “This used to be beneath me. For many years- I… I have come down in the world.”

            But he didn’t let anyone try to offer him comfort, the same conversations had happened too many times even for Mr Molesley, and he strode out of the room, and after Mr Barrow.

 

Thomas was back in his usual position, nothing to do until the morning now, and was trying to get back to the peaceful place he’d been before dinner. But no- it seemed he wasn’t allowed to relax at all today; he turned to the person who’d sat themselves next to him. _Really? The whole table’s empty_ \- and arched an eyebrow, gathering venom.

            “Can I help you?”

            “I heard what you said to Mr Molesley, Thomas.” Anna sighed and Thomas blew a stream of smoke.

            “So you’ve come to slap my wrists, ‘ave you? You should know that won’t work... besides, I didn’t say anythin’ he didn’t know already.”

            “But why do you need to be so unkind? I see you sitting in the corner, wishing you could join in with the rest of us, but you never will if you keep being so nasty.” Thomas shrugged and Anna softened, “Haven’t you ever heard ‘treat people the way you want to be treated’?”

            “That’s precisely what I’m doing, Mrs Bates, and I’ll thank you to stay out of it.”


	8. Transition Isn't Pretty, But Conversion Is Hideous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Homophoba, Conversion Therapy, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, etc be warned! Sorry Thomas!

Thomas’ sister had stopped writing him- she’d moved far far away- down to Swindon, of all places, and now he didn’t have her. Not that Thomas was feeling particularly chatty- life had merely come between them. Secretly, Thomas thought she’d gotten sick of his moping, his continued struggle to do anything with his life, fourteen years without any show for himself. Everyone else certainly seemed to be.

Jimmy’s absence reminded him that there weren’t even a handful of people that could stomach him. No one else would stop to spit on him if he were on fire. And it wasn’t easy, like it used to be. He knew what it was like to be in on the joke, now, and going back to being alone wasn’t as satisfying as it had once been. If Thomas didn’t know any better, he’d say his pride had slipped- he wasn’t above anyone else, he wasn’t special- he was like Jimmy, just another face without a story to leave behind.

It started with a newspaper advertisement.

Thomas had little else to do these days- no letters, no friends, even cigarettes had lost some of their magic. There he spotted it- _Choose Your Own Path_. Thomas scoffed. _Yeah, if only._ The inscription, however, was rather more interesting.

_Have you ever wanted to choose your own direction?_

_It’s never too late to become a new man. Any problem with women is a thing of the past, for now there is a cure to unholy inclinations! Try our treatment and the women will fall at your feet- you’ll be eager to have them, too._

The picture was of a man looking longingly at a fairly average sort of woman. The implied meaning was obvious.

_If you are a man in need of our services, telephone here at…_

 

Thomas organized a telephone call.

            “Hello, is this ‘choose your own path’?” Part of him was terrified it was a joke. That he was wrong about what the service was for- that it was just a trap by the police to catch men like him… but he pressed onwards. _If I can change it I’m a free man, if it’s possible… the next time someone like Jimmy comes along I won’t screw it up- and I can be **happy** -_

“ _Yes, hello Sir, this is the head administrator. Are you interested in our services?”_ The voice on the other end was stiffly formal, professional, but the accent was rough around the edges.

            “I am.” Thomas grit his teeth.

            “ _And what seems to be your problem_?”

            “I have a problem with, er, women. I suppose.”

            “ _And what problem is that?_ ”

            Thomas hesitated.

            “ _Sir, in order to learn more about our services we must know your ‘problem’ is appropriate for our treatment_.”

            “Right. Er. My problem is that… I’m not- I’m not _attracted_ to women, as it were.”

            “ _I see, Sir. That sounds about right. But you are attracted to…_?”

            “Um.” Thomas sighed, and his fingers tapped on the table. “I suppose I… look- I’m not gonna get in trouble or nothin’, for what I’m sayin’?”

            “ _Our service is entirely confidential, Sir. But for the safety of other members we must be sure that you belong with us_.”

            “Right. Yes. Yes I would say, that… I’m attracted to- an’ I know I shouldn’t an’… well, it’s blokes, really.”

            The voice didn’t sound surprised. “ _Yes that’s right, Sir. We can change that for you. That’s why you have contacted us?_ ”

            “Yes- yes- I want to- to feel the other way. You can do that?”

            “ _Certainly, Sir. Our treatment involves a weeks stay in our clinic in London- I must advise you that it won’t be an entirely pleasant stay, but you must expect that_.”

            “Right. What does it involve, exactly?”

            “ _That will all be explained to you when you come to our clinic. In order for our process to work we must get to the root of your problem- we have proven satisfaction and effectiveness rates, but it is essential that you remain for a week, and you continue with the treatment, helpfully and discretely provided by us, when you return. When shall we book you in?”_

            It wasn’t cheap, either.

 

And Thomas’ excuse- his father’s illness- to get him up to London in the first place- that was _perfect_. This was his father’s illness, what he’d passed on and somehow impressed on him, and he was up to London to cure it. Well, it made sense in Thomas’ head.

 

They had asked his name to secure the booking, implying freely he might chose something other than what was stated on his birth certificate, so for the duration of his stay he was ‘James Hallward’. The address he’d been given lead to something he wouldn’t have described as a ‘clinic’, so much as a warehouse on the bank not fit to house livestock- or a coffin room. Thomas nearly turned around when he got to the door. _What the bloody hell are they doin’ with all that money I’ve sent them?_ But he knocked, and an ‘attendant’ (only called so because he wore a white apron) answered, glanced to make sure Thomas was alone, asked his name, and ushered him in.

            He was lead to an open space; semi-permanent walls had been erected into a few corridors and rooms, and he seemed to find himself in the biggest. There were rickety chairs arranged in a semi-circle, around ten of them, filled with six other men. Thomas wordlessly took a seat, more exposed than he’d ever felt in his life, and glanced around without making eye contact.

            They were all here for the same reason- their unspoken secret stripped bare and left in the atmosphere. Odd, how trivial it all seemed now that they all knew. Thomas didn’t bother trying not to feel smug he was the least likely looking out of the lot of them- maybe they’d think he was coming on behalf of someone else… but then, if all blokes like him had the same look- did that mean it was something they were born with, as he’d been told? Could you change something like that? You could change the colour of your hair with treatment but you couldn’t keep it that way… maybe that’s what it was… or was it just too little exercise as children, maybe…

            The door at the back of the ‘room’ opened and a self-important looking man looked around to the attendant at the door. A look and a nod was shared, and the man plastered a smile onto his face.

            “Gentlemen. My name is Doctor Ashby, and I will be the head of services during your stay.” Thomas recognised the voice on the telephone. The man looked around, sensing the uneasiness in the room, but he didn’t seem phased by it, and instead took centre stage- moving to stand in front of them all, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

            “Now, let me begin by explaining to you exactly what it is that you are, and how our treatment works. In order to cure a disease, one must first understand it. And in order to understand it we must look to the root cause.” He cleared his throat and continued.

            “There are many theories; such as absent fathers and over-bearing mothers of which I am sure you are aware. However, here at Choose Your Own Path we take a different approach. Our theories are based on three simple factors; in animal terms, and I warn you, gentleman, I must be quite graphic with you in order to enable your full understanding. Understanding is vital.”

            Thomas wasn’t convinced. He kept his head down.

            “The three theories are thus; the ‘only port in the storm’ theory, the ‘alliances’ theory, and the ‘pleasure’ theory. The ‘only port in the storm’ theory refers to what many of you may have experienced- if your first relations were with a man, not as uncommon an occurrence in regular men as you might think, it may simply be you have never thought to look at women because you mistakenly trained yourself not to- without sufficient encouragement to seek the opposite sex, when the same was readily available, you confused yourself and this is quite undoable. If not, perhaps, as animals do, you performed these acts in order to form ‘alliances’ with the men you sought them with, confusing this with the correct behaviours to establish respect and connection, overriding your natural impulses- do you see the common theme? This is the reason many sexual deviants emerge at adolescence.”

            _Nothing to do with your testicles dropping and libido increasin’, then,_ Thomas thought to himself.

            “Finally, the ‘pleasure’ theory- and that is that males like yourselves become the way you are because they see sexual acts as ‘fun’- not for reproduction or union under God- and this is a major fallacy of the degenerate brain. Reproduction should be enjoyable because you are with a woman you have wed- of course there are men that seek women outside of marriage, but they have not fallen as far as yourselves. The excitement you feel is entirely the Devil’s influence- and temptation has a reputation for being demanding. You should know that is true by the guilt you all feel, and the extremes of your misunderstandings, which have lead you to break laws of man and God to your own ends. The way you have behaved is in its very existence corrupt and unnatural. We will train you to resist these sick thoughts, and teach you to understand the true _natural_ urges that guide men’s attention to the fairer sex- you will recognise this attraction within yourself and will come to understand that the desire you feel is fuelled by moral corruption, and find purity when you discover the true way within yourself which has been hidden by it.”

            Thomas bit his lip. This was all sounding a little too true for his liking. The man didn’t relent, and his insistence made his words truth.

            “It’s all rot. Rotten corruption, which some young men are at risk of. A disease, nothing more. You were cursed and blessed with other things, so do not ask _why_ \- why _not_ this, too? You must fight it. Homosexuality is a choice. There’s a pre-disposition, yes. But there’s a disposition to being a drug addict or a violently aggressive criminal, too- as modern science has suggested. But not everyone becomes violent, or an addict.

            Of course, as with addictive vices, there is a risk of it developing if temptation is yielded to- you men are the unlucky ones but you mustn’t dismiss that. Denial is disastrous for the effectiveness of treatment. The only solution is not to indulge in the first place, but as many of you have stated on the forms you sent in- you have already fallen victim to your temptations. But.” The man wagged his finger, beaming at his uninspired crowd. “I can assure you this does not impact your chances of revival to ordinary life. Complete abstinence is the only cure, not only from actions, but also from thoughts. We, at Choose Your Own Path, aim to help you stop the thoughts, and train yourselves back to nature’s intentions for you. You are all virile young men, and it is not too late for any of you.” He looked around for any chance of comment, but of course there was none.

            “It’s been a long day travelling for most of you, I expect. Treatment will begin in the morning- there is a list on the wall here of your appointment times. There will be three stages to treatment, each explained in due course, and the treatments will be repeated three times a day over the course of the week. One week from now, gentlemen you will be new men- free to choose the path that comes naturally to the rest. Until then, you will be shown to your rooms, fed, and allowed to sleep. Patients here are reminded to focus on their own recovery, and isolation and reflection is often key to a fast, effective revival.” He inclined his head, nodded to the attendant, and left the room.

            _Patients, are we? Right._

The attendant started calling names, which were nervously responded to, and ‘Mr Hallward’ was shown to his room.

            Sparse, with a bed and several pitchers of water (no pipes, then), a chamber pot and as for the food… well, that was best left unmentioned.

            Thomas unpacked what little he’d brought, tidied himself up for bed, ignored his food, and lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach. What he’d usually be doing around this time… probably wasn’t acceptable in this ‘clinic’. Still, he couldn’t sleep and he wasn’t particularly in the mood. Nerves chewed at his insides.

           It was a long night.

  
He was woken early, given a cheap, rough gown, asked to dress and prepare himself, (he’d wash after the treatment, apparently), asked very pointedly to go to the toilet, and taken straight to one of the shut off rooms, with a little sturdier walls. No rest for the wicked, then.

 

Inside the room was a lamp, a projector, a chair in front of a screen, and a leather box. Thomas didn’t trust the leather box. He turned around to the attendant, who merely gestured and looked at him with a blank expression.

            “Please, Sir. Take a seat.”

            He did as asked, eyes drawn again to the large box on the table beside him. The Doctor entered the room.

            “Ah, Mr Hallward.” He came to Thomas’ side.

            “What’s goin’ on here, doctor?” Thomas asked nervously.

            Ashby looked up at him and smiled. Thomas felt a little nauseous.

            “It’s really very simple, Mr Hallward. We’re going to show you a few images, images you may once have enjoyed the sight of. We are then going to teach you to associate those images with an unpleasant feeling, as regular men would feel, and to feel relief at normal, regular images. This is called aversion therapy, and will open you up to your natural impulses towards the female form.”

            “Right.” Thomas clenched his jaw.

            “Well, first we need to give you some medication.” Ashby pulled a small box from his pocket, within it a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. Thomas’ stomach clenched. “This injection will begin the process- affecting areas in your brain to activate the switch between the route you’ve chosen, and the natural one you were born with. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, I think so.” Thomas glanced to the door.

            “Now, Mr Hallward- thoughts about giving up are going to occur often over this week, but you must prevail. Besides anything, you’ve paid good money to be here. And you do want to change, don’t you?”

            “I’m bloody here, aren’t I? Just get on with it, I can take whatever it is you’re goin’ to do to me.”

            “That’s the spirit- I imagine a man like yourself is going to require very little maintenance at all; with that attitude and your stature we’ll have you chasing tail in no time.” He pulled liquid into the syringe and waved him to his feet.

            “I’m sorry for the imposition, but this substance is long-acting, and cannot be injected directly into the blood- only into the muscle. If you’d undo your gown, stand up and expose your hip.”

            Thomas put his hand to the drawstring maintaining his dignity, and glanced around nervously.

            “There’s no need for modesty here, Mr Hallward, you’ve given up your right to that with your behaviour- and I’m afraid this is the least of it.”

            Thomas did as he’d been asked. He winced at the needle sting- how bloody long it seemed to take to push the liquid into him, but he grit his teeth and tried not to show his discomfort on his face. He’d taken the first step. He didn’t feel anything, yet.

            Ashby handed the used needle to the attendant, who went off with it and nodded for Thomas to re-dress himself.

            “There- that was easy, wasn’t it?” He crossed to the big leather box. “Now, this is where you will need the most strength- the shock therapy is absolutely necessary for success, and you must steel your mind for accepting that fact. Please undo your gown and remove your undergarment.”

            “You what?” Thomas glanced away from the box, which had revealed a rather dangerous looking contraption within it.

            “In order to tackle your problem we need to deal with its… source.” He gave a pointed look to Thomas’ crotch. Thomas put his hands over his lap.

            “I don’t think- erm- I’m not sure I can…”

            “Mr Hallward what did I just say?”

            Thomas swallowed. “Right. Right, alright then.” He stood and uneasily stripped; sitting back down with his hands over his lap, though it seemed a little redundant.

            Doctor Ashby was entirely professional. “Now, we’ll be applying electrodes to your hands, feet, and genitals, in order to affect the most necessary instruments of desire, most connected to the brain. As you can imagine, shocking the brain itself in such a way would be too dangerous.”

            _What, zapping my feet is gonna stop me walkin’ down dark alleys with rent boys, is it?_ Thomas stayed still.

            “How much is this goin’ to hurt?” He asked just to distract himself from the attachment of uncomfortable objects to the most vulnerable part of himself. Ashby didn’t reply but placed Thomas’ hands on either arm rest and attached more of the electrodes to his palms. His arms and legs were strapped to the chair to keep him still, and the doctor moved behind to the projector.

            “Right, Mr Hallway- are you ready for treatment to begin?”

            “As I’ll ever be.” Thomas flexed and looked to the screen as it lit up. The first image was that of two men- fairly attractive, standing naked with their arms around each other. Thomas got half way to feeling ridiculous when his body jerked and he was bent forward by the force of the shock, hotter than fire between his legs, a loud _BZZZZ_ accompanying it.

            “ _God_ \- what the bloody hell! _Urgh_.” Thomas squeezed his eyes shut.

            “Good- feel the pain, this will be over before you know it… open your eyes, please Mr Hallward.”

            Thomas was glad he had gone to the bathroom, with each shock his stomach clenched, pain shot up his back, and the urge to vomit crept up his throat… the next thirty minutes felt like hours- Thomas’ dignity went out of the window, he was crying and pleading for it to stop, squirming in his chair and begging for it to _just. Stop._

            He was lead back to his room when it was done- staggering with an arm thrown round the attendant- and left on his bed. Thomas curled onto his side, hands between his legs, breath still coming in little hitched gasps. He didn’t even have the energy to wipe his eyes, and smudged his cheek against the pillow, ignoring the muffled yells that came through the walls.

            “I can’t- I can’t do this. I can’t.” He repeated it like a mantra, as unconsciousness threatened him.

 

Just as he began to feel like he’d started recuperating the door opened.

            “Mr Hallward it’s time for your second treatment.”

            “I can’t- I can’t do it.”

            “That’s what they all say after the first one, Sir.” The attendant walked to the bed and helped him to his feet; half dragging him back to the room.

            “No- no stop- _stop_ I can’t.” He dug his feet in outside the door but he was pushed forward.

            “Be over before you know it, Sir. Don’t you want to get better?”

            Thomas groaned as he was manhandled into the chair. Halfway through the second session he refused to open his eyes, whimpering and shaking his head, until the Doctor grabbed his chin and slapped his face to keep him focused.

            “Come on Mr Hallward, you can do this- stay with us Mr Hallward… come on now…”

 

The rest of the week was more of the same- interspersed with group speeches, more of the same messages- they had them chanting it by the end. By the third day relations had become unimaginable- Thomas never wanted anything to touch him ever again. He was also permitted the use of a switch. If he wanted to avoid the shocks, he could press a button to be greeted by a picture of a woman looking alluringly naked at him through the screen. At night, he lay in more pain he’d ever felt, crying to himself and his situation, praying that he’d be fixed when he left, and ignoring the similar noises echoing through the walls. In the mess of what he was going through contemplating its success was pointless.    

            The final day he was allowed to recover- he’d had to be carried to the last few ‘appointments’, and from the glimpses he’d gotten of others, they were in a similar state. One day managed to get him back into some shape. Or, so he could at least drag himself to the station. He elected to walk back up to Downton- he could use the fresh air. The weight of his ‘continued treatment’ weighed his pocket down; on the final day they’d taught him how and how often to take the pills and the injections to maintain the effects. Thomas hadn’t started feeling any ‘effects’ whatsoever. But he’d done it. He’d managed a week- he was cured. Now he just had to wait.

 

Back at Downton everything was much the same- back to work with a slightly brighter outlook, was all. His complexion had recovered enough that no one said anything, at any rate. He had a lie at the tip of his tongue when Mrs Hughes asked about the spoon, but of all people, _Baxter_ stood up for him. _Well I don’t need her now, do I? I don’t owe anyone anythin’, once I’m the same as they are_.

 

But something had gone wrong. He wasn’t sure what- he was supposed to be a bloody medic and all and still something- the injections- he was _sure_ he’d sterilized the needles. But he noticed when he woke up one morning that something wasn’t right. There was a red swollen lump at the site, the spot bleed at the touch, and it hurt like buggery, too. Thomas dressed it cleanly and hoped it would go away. It did make the injections even more intolerable, just as he’d gotten used to doing them himself. He tried on the other side, just as he’d been taught, but he was clumsy and his hands shook with the pain- he kept flinching before he’d gotten all of it in. That wouldn’t do.

            “Don’t you _want_ to get better?” He’d growl to himself.

            He had been leaning against the sink, couldn’t sit without a thousand volts of white hot pain shooting through his side, bawling his eyes out like a child because he couldn’t bloody do it _if you can’t even help yourself and get over this stupid little pain- you’ve been shot you can handle a bloody injection you weak pansy-_ he tried again, hissed and groaned, and Miss bloody Baxter just _had_ to stick her nose in. Thomas sent her on her way, forced her out, and though he’d been a mess he hoped she’d get the message. He didn’t want her stupid _pity_ and he didn’t care if her heart wept while she patted herself on the back for being so liberal- when Thomas was the one who had actually lived through what it was really like.

The thought of her knowing who he was- who he _had been_ itched under his skin. Was anyone ever going to let him forget it- was he going to be held accountable for his past sins the rest of his life? _Well why bloody not? They can stand lookin’ all noble and proper and make themselves feel better every time they make me do something to **prove** I’m worth their forgiveness. _ So, if he got a little more bitter, a little more determined to find out other people’s dark secrets, who could blame him? Better than turning the anger in on himself: he hadn’t any left, there.

Thomas became obsessed with other people’s dirty business; what they hid, who they really were- no better than himself- and it at least it gave him something to take his mind off every limped step.

 

He dismissed everyone’s petty worrying about the state he was in, which dragged every time it was brought up- _do they think insisting I’m not well is going to keep me on my feet?_ He knew he wasn’t well; he ran a fever and most nights he wasn’t sleeping- could barely lie down. The wound was infected, Thomas didn’t need to be a medic to know at the sight of it, but what could he do? No one would help him, no one would care, and he needed treatment to keep getting better. An odd exchange of mind and body. Thomas barely recognised himself in the mirror- dark sleepless circles sinking his sharp blue eyes into something pitiful. He would up covering his looking glass with a pillowcase.

            But ignoring it was getting more difficult. Every step hurt, every room was too hot, and he had to stop and shut his eyes every now and then to keep himself from throwing up his luncheon onto the carpet.

            “Barrow, are you quite well? Carson have you been over-working him?” Like he was an old donkey.

            “Not that I’m aware, your ladyship.” Carson didn’t sound impressed, but even the edge of concern in his voice sent tremors to Thomas’ gag reflex. “Mr Barrow, am I ill-treating you?”

            Thomas managed to rasp, “You are the soul of kindness, Mr Carson.” without fainting.

            Carson narrowed his eyes, concern acutely growing in Thomas’ lack of sarcasm.

 

But at least it was working. And now each time he was asked if he was ‘quite well’ the reminder that he was getting better brought some semblance of a smile to his face. As he served at the Grantham’s cocktail party (thank Heaven he was an under-butler: standing over-seeing was about all he could manage), he looked around realized that he wasn’t attracted to any of the men present. Maybe that was because most of them were getting close to twice his age, maybe it was because he had to concentrate to keep his eyes focused, or maybe it was because it was actually working. He caught himself thinking _Lady Mary’s looking’s well to do tonight_ , and cautiously examined the feeling. Was this what regular men felt when they looked at women? He'd been told it would be less intense than the lust he'd felt for men. How was he supposed to know what that felt like? He looked again. _Lady Mary is very pretty- is she any more pretty than before, or am I jus’ noticing it in passin’_. He clung to that something, and hoped it was the beginning.

 

And during the nights he could no longer sleep through, Thomas sought relief in fantasy worlds- With Edward, with Jimmy, with some nameless man he’d created as an adolescent, but they didn’t bring the relief they once had. The thought of anything physical had become unbearable, made him squirm in his bed, and Thomas took that as a good sign. Still; imagined arms wrapped around him, a kind word, a smile, and a fantasy shoulder to rest his head on, brought some comfort when he lay sweating and gasping through another night without rest.

 

So even if he looked worse than he had ever, even if he needed three packets of cigarettes a day to get him through, there was that. Baxter stopped him on the stairs one evening to try and dispel that small good feeling.

            “I know what you’re doing. I’ve read about it.”

            “You think it’s a waste of time.” Thomas scowled down at her; ready for all the namby-pamby false liberal touchy-feely shite she was about to throw at him.

            “I don’t believe you can change a person’s nature, with drugs and electric shocks.” _Where the bloody hell did she read that?_ “The most you’ll achieve is to have no feelings at all. Is that what you really want?”

            Thomas looked at his hand on the banister. _Yes. Better than this- right now I could use a good dose of nothing_. “I just so happens that you are _wrong_ , Miss Baxter because it _is_ working.”

            “Is it?” She sounded incredulous. _Good- be surprised I’ve done something good w’me life for once._ “So you feel differently about women now, do you?” There was no mockery in her voice. For some reason that made it worse.

            “I don’t feel differently about _you_.” He spat and smartly marched past her.

 

It couldn’t last.

 

He couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much- the pain- he was going to get ill- really _ill_ if he didn’t do something- he’d seen limbs amputated for less, but _what_ could he do? Thomas hadn’t even the strength to be angry any more, not even with himself. Without his anger he had no strength. He was scared and he was tired and he was sick and he _couldn’t_ keep it up. His pocket and his body and his bloody mind couldn’t afford it. He’d already swallowed his pride, what else did he have to lose?

            He showed Miss Baxter what he’d done, the only person who’d listen to him, and asked for her help. He let her take him to the Doctor.

            She was smart and she was kind and she took control of the situation, voice shaking with concern, but tone certain,

            “And you bring _everything_ with you, do you understand?”

            Thomas nodded and looked at the floor. _Little brother needs taking care of once again_. She even forgave him for his entire vindictive escapade- telling the police what he had. And Thomas had thought it wasn’t possible to feel any guiltier.

 

In the hansom on the way over, she gently took his hand, squeezed, and didn’t say a word as Thomas stared at his lap. He felt too ill to try speaking, but he didn’t let go.

            He stood quietly in the reception, hands folded behind his back, eyes on his shoes as Baxter talked her way into Doctor Clarkson’s office.

            “No, this man needs medical attention _now_ , Doctor Clarkson, it has to be you because it’s a _sensitive_ issue. I wouldn’t have brought him down here if it wasn’t an emergency.”

            She fought his corner. Thomas followed Doctor Clarkson behind a screen in his practicing room.

            “Now, what seems to be the trouble? I can see you have a fever. What are your other symptoms?”

            “I’ve got an infection… from a needle- it’s all in that box.” The Doctor gestured for him to strip while he examined the contents of Thomas’ treatment, clicked his teeth at the wound, and went about cleaning it,

            “This is going to sting, I’m afraid.”

            “I’ve ‘ad worse.”

            “So it seems.” He applied a basic dressing around Thomas’ middle. “You must be sure not to touch it. And let it breathe at night- only wear a cotton shirt, and I’ll give you spare bandages to apply every day or when anything leaks through. Take it easy until it begins to fade- don’t irritate it, and within a few weeks it should heal.” He went out to meet Miss Baxter as he washed his hands.

            Thomas came out to join him once he’d dressed, hands behind his back. He glanced at Baxter, shyly and looked back at the floor. He’d flush if he weren’t so pale and sweaty. He was told to drink plenty of water, take plenty of rest etcetera- Baxter promised to look after him. Something about being caught at doing something so stupid, being found out and scolded by people who cared- but not ‘scolded’, because they were _worried_ , made him feel worse. He shifted on his feet. The only feeling he could relate it to was trying to tell his father about Lilly; a shifty, embarrassed, frustrated, patronised, sort of feeling.

            He explained himself, hoping he’d be spared explaining the reasons _why_ -

            “The purpose of which was?”

            Thomas glanced at Baxter. She gave him a reassuring look back, tinged with sadness. He supposed she might actually care about his _wellbeing_ , rather than about just appearing a good person. His eyes looked somewhere near the corner of the room.

            “To change me… To make me more like other people- other men.” If it was saline it hadn’t worked. He was still… _different_.

            “My advice to you, Thomas. Would be to accept the burden that chance has seen fit to lay upon you, and to fashion as good a life as you’re able.”

            _Right_.

            Baxter walked him back as he held an umbrella over them and let him comfort her. Turns out, she wasn’t just trying to seem nice to the others, or even just to herself. Her compliments came like weights off his chest. Maybe there was some _purpose_ he could apply himself too.

            “Think what you could do in this world if you just set your mind to it.”

            Well, Thomas had never had any problems with determination before- just because his goals were usually devious, didn’t mean he didn’t have them. He huffed a smile. “You’re daft. Y’know that?” She reminded him so strongly of his sister in that moment, looking slightly confused at Thomas’ wayward humour, he couldn’t help but like her.


	9. Life Is Pleasant. Death Is Peaceful. It's The Transition That's Troublesome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR warnings for suicide, self-harm, depression and homophobia!

Things got a little better after that. Thomas still couldn’t so much as glance twice at another man without a tightness in his chest spreading guilt through his body, but after a trip to a gambling den, and a victory over Lord Sinderby, he began to feel a bit more like himself again.

There were days when he felt nothing at all: a sort of grey fog seemed to cover his brain and only the structure of his workload kept him moving- but there were good days, too. Days when Master George demanded piggybacks, and rumpled his tailcoat holding on too tightly, and shrieked with delight in Thomas’ ear as he ran across the gallery. But when that was over Thomas was drained, and all of a sudden people were exhausting. Thomas grew tired of double-guessing every word they said to him, trying to figure out if it was a personal jab. 

He’d probably have been alright if he were still, and oh the irony to end all ironies, a footman- but as a ‘supervisor’, second in command to Mr Carson, who wanted nothing to do with him, he was left with newspapers, alone in the servant’s hall with his cigarettes most of the day. _That_ didn’t help the thoughts that whispered in his ear in waves that he was unwanted, unloved, no one could stand the sight of him… the thoughts crept up on Thomas until he became dully aware they’d become the only thoughts in his head. He tried to fight them; Anna’s smiles and Baxter’s cups of tea kept his head above water, but only just.

 

Still, he’d just brought Andy, a possible friend, over to Downton. Surely that would cheer him up.

 

And Andy was brilliant- Andy was safe, because Thomas didn’t like him _that_ way, Andy adored Thomas for saving his money and reputation, and they seemed to get on well, too. Precisely what Thomas needed. It was 1925.

 

            “Ah, yes, Andrew. Might I have a word?” Mr Carson watched Thomas exit the servant’s hall and focused on the new footman.

            “Certainly, Mr Carson.” He followed obediently and Carson shut the door to his office behind them.

            “Now, Andrew, I can't help but notice you seem to be close to Mr Barrow.”

            “Certainly I am.” Andy stood, his hands behind his back, in front of the desk. “We met when the Crawley’s were in London- he took care of me. He’s a good friend.”

            “Yes.” Mr Carson hesitated. “Well, be that as it may- and I'd advise you this is delicate information- I should warn you not to allow Mr Barrow to take advantage; a young man like yourself, ignorant of the way of things or so you should be- I don’t want him to convince you to do anything… well." He cleared his throat. "Let's just say I don’t want you in his room with the door closed, and certainly not after lights out, whatever he says.”

            “Why, Mr Carson?” Andy frowned. “Is there something I should know about him?”

            “Mr Barrow has worked here for fifteen years, and his spotless service record- upstairs anyway- means he is… well, an arrangement has been made. He is under our protection and I don’t want _any_ scandal.”

            “Is Mr Barrow dangerous, or somethin’?”

            “No. Certainly not deliberately, though I’d stay on the right side of him if I were you- no he’s… he’s… a man of a certain kind. One that may try to... influence you, to- well, certain indecencies…”

            “I understand you, Mr Carson. He’s an invert.” Andy nodded, refreshing all of his memories of the man to be sure there had been nothing out of the order. Nothing had seemed so at the time, but if _that_ was what he’d wanted…

            Mr Carson looked slightly affronted, and stammered slightly for a moment before he could continue. “I see you’re aware of things- well in my day- I mean- thank you, for taking this so civilly.”

            “Well I don’t blame him, Mr Carson. He can’t help it. But thank you all the same, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out.”

            “Good lad.” Mr Carson felt quite pleased with how smoothly it had gone.

            “Is that all, Mr Carson?”

            “Yes- but, um- don’t gossip about this in the halls- a few of the upper staff are aware, but the women… you understand?”

            “Of course, Mr Carson.” Andy nodded and shut the door on his way out.

 

            “Ah, Andrew, just the man I wanted to see, would you mind talking with me for a wee moment?”

            With a sense of déjà vu Andy followed Mrs Hughes into the office, and took a chair opposite her, hitching his trousers as he sat.

            “Yes, Mrs Hughes, how can I help?”

            “Well, I just wanted a quick word- Mr Carson doesn’t know I’m talking to you- and you’ve not done anything wrong, but I thought I’d better tell you all the same.”      

            “Tell me…?”

            “Well, it’s about Mr Barrow.”

            Andy nodded slowly. “Yes- that I seem close to him?”

            “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I think Mr Barrow could use a friend. But be careful not to… give him the wrong impression.” She was about to explain how _sensitive_ the issue was but Andy quickly replied,

            “Yes, I understand.” and cleared his throat, shifting in his seat; masking his surprise that she could speak so openly of such a subject.

            “Ah- you’re aware, are you? Well, I suppose if they gossip about those above them, we’re fair game too… certainly you shouldn’t be worried- I know he doesn’t mean any harm, but don’t be too overly-friendly- for his sake as much as yours.”

            “Wouldn’t want to lead him on… don’t worry Mrs Hughes, I know how to handle myself.”

            “Jolly good. I'm glad you can be a gentleman about it.”

            “I’d better go.” He stood. “That's the gong. Thank you Mrs Hughes.” Andrew ducked out of the room.

            But that still wasn’t the end of it.

           

“Oh, Andy, jus’ one thing before you go up!”

            Andy paused with the tray of meat. “Yes, Mrs Patmore?”

            “Keep an eye out for Mr Barrow- ‘e likes you, and-”

            “Yes, I’m quite aware, Mrs Patmore- you think I’d actually be foolish enough to accidentally encourage him?” Andrew’s clenched his jaw, self-conscious of everyone making such a fuss.

            “It’s ‘appened before, you just be careful young man- and get that dish up there before they come lookin’ for it themselves, go on!”

 

Now the hallboy sniggering ‘you _friends_ with Mr Barrow then, are you?’ made sense. He didn’t mind- it was a little odd, he supposed, certainly not something to brag about, but if he had to have talking-tos by everyone about it… well, best that Mr Barrow wasn’t given the chance to be wrong. He’d be polite, of course, but no special treatment. Mr Barrow was a lot taller than he was, and it’d be best if there weren’t any trouble right after he’d arrived. Shame, really. He’d seemed like a fine enough fellow.

_Who has an under-butler these days?_ Thomas couldn’t take it personally and couldn’t bear to think about it.

            “Besides, they all want to be rid of me anyway.” Thomas tried to keep his tone light.

            “I’m sure that’s not true.” Thomas found Baxter’s optimism endearing.

            “ _Yes_ \- yes it is.” He stopped and turned, trusting Baxter with what was really bothering him. “You’ve seen how they warn Andy to keep away from me. We got on very well when he first arrived,” _And before_ , “But _now_ , he hardly dares to talk to me.”

            “I think this is all in your head.” Baxter followed the sulking teenager of an under-butler in front of her, and tried to reassure him.

            “No it’s _not_.” Thomas said stubbornly, but with no spite aimed at her, arching his eyebrow and pulling a self-satisfied pout, so it would seem less pertinent to him than it was.

            ...

 

            “Should I start looking for another job?”

            Mr Carson shrugged. “How could it hurt?”

            _All in my head, bollocks_.

 

           ...

 

Things went from bad to worse from that moment onwards. Words started repeating themselves in Thomas’ head like promises-

 _I should let him find his own way, Mr Barrow_ … _When do you need me Mr Carson?… When indeed?_ …

It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t like other men of ‘that sort’- he wasn’t effeminate, he wasn’t lecherous, and he didn’t drape himself over any bloke who so much as shook his hand. He was a grown man, and he started hating everything about that way of life. The secrecy, the uncleanliness, the immaturity- well, he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t- but he could see in everyone’s faces that they thought he was. That he was some foppish bent-wrist bugger no use to anyone- and worse yet- he tried being nice; helped Baxter visiting the farm, wasn’t abhorrent to Molesley, even tried to offer his services, his bloody job, being helpful to Mr Carson, and was rejected. And helpful as Anna, Baxter, and even sometimes Mrs Hughes were; pushing a cup of tea in front of him when she caught him staying up late staring into space, it was no good- no one understood. He was being pushed out of his _home_. Again. And no one gave a damn whether he’d drop dead in a workhouse or a gutter or worse.

Looking for jobs brought echoes of a much earlier time. The same old story- worse job options. He’d be useless for the factories now- all machines, you needed proper schooling and training for basic work, these days.

...

His first interview had an oddly familiar feeling to it- same downstairs paint job, at any rate. All the great houses were the same as each other after all- Thomas wondered if it was deliberate. Christ, it’d been years since interviews. What was he supposed to say?

            “You’re a _delicate_ lookin’ fella aren’t you?”

            This man was nothing like Mr Carson- somehow even more unlikeable. _Calm down Thomas he’s just talkin’ about your sense of importance about your work._

Thomas blinked, slowly. “I wouldn’t say that.” His accent getting rougher was an old defence mechanism he hadn’t needed in fifteen years.

            “Are you married?”

_Don’t panic. It’s not unusual not to be._

“No.”

“Why would that be?” The man's tone was seeping smugness. “Did the right girl never come along?”

             _Well back in my day, you old toad, it wasn’t acceptable for any man in service. What would a walrus-looking bluenose like you know about girls?_

...           

“I don’t understand why you bother with him.” Molesley confided to Baxter once, when Thomas had slunk off.

“I know you don’t.” She replied, taking a thoughtful sip of tea, wishing there were some way to help. _B_ _ecause people who push others away are the ones who really need bothering with._ Not that kind people would understand- those who didn’t know what it was like to self-destruct. But Thomas was self-destructing; she’d seen it in the bathroom, with those syringes, spelt out clearly on his face. She kept catching glimpses of it as he walked through the corridors by himself.

...

Bates was thriving in the unfriendly atmosphere Thomas had found himself in. “Someone might accuse you of having feelings for the old place.” He scoffed, once.

_Of course I want to stay you unbearable crippled bastard. But oh no have a laugh about it, isn’t it funny, old Barrow has feelings. Bet you didn’t feel so jolly when you thought **you** were getting the boot. I wish you were rotting back in your cell. But apparently I deserve it more than you do._

He kept trying with Andy, trying to be _friendly,_ because Andy was his only hope to prove to everyone he could do it- he had to prove to Andy that he wasn’t just some pansy who fancied blowing the grounsils- he wanted _friendship_ , why didn’t anyone believe him? Or were all men like him insatiable and incapable? Every polite refusal smarted like carpet burn on his cheeks. He knew _why_ and he knew everyone else did too. They were wrong. They were all wrong.

 

Even Mr and Mrs Carson’s ( _urgh_ ) wedding couldn’t snap him out of it. Back in church- the institution that welcomed all and damned him. An aisle he’d never walk a girl up… he contemplated writing to Jimmy, breaking the weeks of silence after he’d been too tired to respond to the last one, but found he couldn’t. He drafted maybe hundreds, but the ones that told the truth were pitiful and pathetic, and the ones that didn’t seemed pointless.

 

...

He did try to talk to Baxter.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a lack of reason.” To put it lightly.

            “What d’you mean?”

            “Why am I here, what am I doing?”

            He faded away, lost in his own helplessness, as he stood on the precipice of his failures... and turned sadly back. He sighed,

            “People _like_ you… Mr Molesley more than likes you.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Oh don’t be silly.”

            “It’s true. I’m quite envious. _Not_ of Mr Molesley.” He frowned and Baxter’s light smile brightened his mind a little, for a moment, before he remembered that he was a degenerate and she only pitied him. If it were any other man she’d run away shrieking.

            “You are stronger than you think. And you’re wrong about me. I mind what people say.” He gave a shrug and hand gesture, walking off. He couldn’t bear to speak any more- it was all too painful and not even Baxter seemed to _understand_ how much it was chewing him up inside.

 

His final straw was envy. Of Gwen- stupid bloody Gwen bloody Harding.

            He sat in his rocking chair in the corner, where he’d always sat- crying and shuddering into the night. No one was listening. No one cared. Sixteen years and Carson wouldn’t believe he could be anything more than the sick degenerate that he was- that someone like him must be some sort of… predator, forcing himself on the young and vulnerable like a bloody madman, or an animal. Carson couldn’t see past what he was- this wasn’t Mr Barrow: trusted servant, this was Lord Byron: abominable beast.

Thoughts kept circling. He couldn’t move to his bed- he knew the sleepless hopelessness waiting for him there. He seemed to have stopped living as of late, not eating or sleeping or _feeling_ anything at all, except a great chasm. He’d never been one for poetry, but that was what it was.

 

_“You are your own worst enemy.”_

_“You seem unusually disenchanted with life these days, Mr Barrow.”_

_“Don’t let the other **animals** find out you’re going soft, or they’ll pounce.”_

_“How is your job search going, Mr Barrow?”_

_“Do you need cheering up?”_

_“You don’t care what people say.”_

Not true. It just wasn’t bloody true. And it wasn’t fair. And he was useless- left to rot here until they finally decided they were done with him, and then he was alone. He hadn’t spoken to his sister in months (had stopped returning her letters)- he had _no one_. This was the first place in his life that had been truly his, and he’d stayed so long he could hardly remember anything else- he was too old to start all over again; no fresh-faced youth looking to grow into his position.

            Once, in the dead of night he’d considered phoning Philip, and had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop himself waking the house with his hysterical laughter. So this was what he’d been reduced to. The fact that he gave a toss about _Lord Grantham’_ s wellbeing said it all, really.

            His mind drifted to Edward, as it often did, these days. _You made the right decision. I didn’t understand it then but I do now. Got out while you still could. While you still had some dignity- weren’t completely useless._ He looked around the dark empty hall. His home. _I won’t do it tonight. I don’t want to go out in the dark. If tomorrow’s alright I won’t do it then, either. See how long I can keep this up..._

The next day Carson all but beat him out the door with a stick. What was he supposed to do- there wasn’t any work for a man with his set of skills and without others. Now even his re-kindled friendship with Andy had been brought to a shuddering halt.

_WHAT WAS HE SUPPOSED TO DO?_

If his behaviour became attention seeking and dramatic it was because it needed to be. He needed _someone_ to help him- but he couldn’t ask. Mrs Hughes was kind, but she didn’t appreciate what this meant- she had understood last time because he’d been left without a reference, but she didn’t see that this was somehow worse; giving him a reference when he had no one to give it to. And now he didn’t have Andy’s reading lessons to fill his days- wasn’t any good for that either, apparently.

Pretty symbolism- him sitting alone in the hall while the others had a drink and a celebration. Not even being around Anna and Baxter could cheer him up now- no one liked being around someone looking to suck the fun out of everything. He just couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t fake it any more.

 

The job rejections, when they came, were little more than dark disappointments. But Baxter kept smiling on- and who could blame her? It wasn’t her job on the line.

            “Of course. That’s right. I’m silly, aren’t I? Silly old me.”

 

Because that’s who he was, wasn’t it, really? _Silly old Barrow, doesn’t he realize nobody cares_?

            “You were right, Edward. You were right.” He muttered. _Fine_. They wanted him to go- he would. No one wanted to help him _, fine_. He didn’t need help. He could do it all by himself.

 

...

 

Getting Anna on her own, without Mr bloody Bates was as difficult as one could expect. Still, eventually she shook her husband off to mend one of Lady Mary’s shawls in the boot room. Thomas shut the door behind him and spoke before Anna could ask him if he was ‘alright?'

            “I jus’ wanted to say. You’ve been kinder to me than anyone here, for longer than any of them. You’re one of the few.” His lips quirked in an odd smile. Anna put down her sewing.

            “Well there’s no need to start giving sentimental goodbyes- you’ll be on your feet before you know it, and don’t think I’ll let you go being a stranger. I’m sure we’ll all be visiting you, if you’re going to be working nearby.” She gave one of those charming irresistible smiles that everyone loved her for.

            Thomas nodded. “Yes. Well. Thought I’d say I appreciated it. ‘Cos I do.” He nodded again, and Anna opened her mouth but he’d already turned to leave.

            Anna went back to fixing the shawl. She had an odd, cold feeling in her stomach.

 

            “Mrs Hughes might I have a word?” It was almost funny that this was the best he’d felt in months, finally having something meaningful to do.

            “Make it quick Mr Barrow I’ve got to get everything ready for this afternoon.”

            “Of course.”

            Mrs Hughes waited but Thomas only looked at her expectantly until she led him to her office.

            “Well?” She looked at him, saw the look on his face and softened. “Is anything the matter, Thomas?”

            “No, no. I’m all sorted now. I just wanted to say- you’ve always taken care of me, defended me, when no one else would. _I_ think,” he glanced at his shoes, “that Downton is very lucky to have you, and so is Mr Carson. You taught me somethin’ about kindness and I might not be considered ‘nice’, but I know I’d be worse if you hadn’t helped me.”

            “And where’s all this come from? Don’t you go running off into the night- I’ll tell Mr Carson to stop being so rough with you, I should have said something sooner…” She put her hand on his shoulder and went to lead him into a chair.

            “It’s alright.” Thomas straightened up and resisted. “Really it is. I’m fine, now. I jus’- as I’m leavin’ an’ all. Thought it’d be right to tell you.” He cleared his throat and smoothed his hand down his waistcoat. “But I’m keepin’ you now, you’d best get on, an I’ll go do the same.”

            “Thomas…” she searched his eyes, and whatever she was found, she couldn’t name. “Don’t do anything stupid. You’ll stay here as long as you need- I’ll make sure you’re well looked after, here and beyond.”

            “Thank you, Mrs Hughes. That means a lot to me.”

 

As he was leaving the office he spied an aproned figure running an errand.

            “Daisy-” she wasn’t on the list but now was a good a time as any.

            “What d’you want Thom- Mr Barrow?” she was rushed off her feet as usual, and was darting in between several bowls on the counter.

            “Nothin’. Jus’ to say I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you. Lead you on, made you do things you didn’t want, made you feel foolish an’ all that. Hope we can put it behind us.”

            Daisy paused and looked up. “Are you _alright_?”

            Thomas sighed. “Yes, I’m _fine_ if everyone would stop askin’. I’m jus’ bein’ nice, don’t know why everyone’s got to be so suspicious.”

            “We wouldn’t if it were _normal_ comin’ from you.” Something in Thomas’ look made her stop for a moment. “If you mean it, I’m glad. An’ thank you for sayin’ it. You were nasty to me, Thomas, an’ it wasn’t fair. But I s’ppose it were a long time ago, an’ you’ve been alright enough to me since.”

            “So you do forgive me, then?” Thomas found a smile somewhere.

            “Course I do. I did ages ago.” She shrugged. “Jus’ don’t expect nothin’ from it. An’ don’t think we’re best mates now- oh _applesauce_! I forgot the bleedin’- Mr Barrow can we do this later _please_?”

            She did Thomas the courtesy of throwing him an odd look as he dismissed himself, tapping the counter and nodding his head as she rushed to the neglected dish.

 

Bates. That was a tricky one. Not that he had much to say. Enough to lean in on him preparing Lord Grantham’s suit upstairs.

            “S’ppose you’ll be glad to see me gone, then.”

            “I’m an odd shoulder to come and mope on, since you’re right in that.” He didn’t bother turning around, but carried on brushing. Thomas was slightly relieved Bates wasn’t treading on eggshells around him, like the rest.

            “Not moping. Just thought I’d pay my respects. No competition now. You’ll enjoy that.” As if he needed to add he’d better be good to Anna. “Speak well of me, won’t you?”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He said over his shoulder as Thomas ducked out. That little chat left him feeling ready. He could do this. At least Bates was honest.

 

Baxter was always going to be the tricky one. She’d suspect something was the matter- she had a way about that sort of thing. So he waited until she was downstairs preparing the last thing she needed to do before walking Molesley to school.

            “You’ll be pleased to hear I think I have a plan.” By the time she was back it’d be too late to prove him wrong.

            “Oh?” She looked up and beamed, “That’s fantastic, Mr Barrow, what is it?”

            “It’s not set in stone yet, but it’s something. Thank you for keepin’ me goin’ through all of this- don’t know anyone else who would have bothered- well, no one did.” His voice nearly cracked but he showed nothing but mild disdain on his face, so nothing seemed amis. “You should write my sister, sure she misses you.”

            “Finally letting me be fond of you?” She blinked. “You are-”

            “Alright- yes. Yes I am. I feel it, for the first time in a while. Not to worry. Everything’s goin’ to sort itself out.”

            “Well I hope so- and I want to hear all about it when I get back.” She glanced to the clock and started packing away.

            “Go take Molesley to school, I’ll be here when you get back. Where else would I be?”

            “Just hang on, Mr Barrow, you’re nearly through it.”

            _And wasn’t that the truth._

 

He’d have liked to say something to Andy- but he wasn’t to be found anywhere nearby, and if he said something sentimental it’d just ruin everything anyway. His last deed on this planet; a questionable act that’d make Carson glad he was in the ground, even though it was perfectly innocent. Thomas huffed, and glanced around. No chance to say goodbye to Master George or young Lady Sibby, either. Even a word with Lady Mary felt somehow appropriate. That would all have to be left unsaid- they’d never remember him when they grew up anyway.

On his final roam through the corridors he saw Molesley and couldn’t quite help himself. The final hour was dawning and excitement, nervousness, mixed with something else, was in his blood- there wasn’t a right word for this situation.

            “Mr Molesley. Well. I hope you make more of your life than I’ve ever made of mine.” He smiled in the way that usually made people think something nasty was about to happen, and trotted up the stairs, losing satisfaction from the confused look on Molesley’s face as he reached the hallway. This was it then. Not much left to do. The thought sobered him sufficiently for the occasion.

 

He ran into Anna and Baxter, and tried not to show that he was startled. Surely they couldn’t guess what he was up to.

            “Are you alright, Mr Barrow?” Anna’s face showed growing concern- a good idea to leave his ‘little chats’ to the last minute then.

            “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” _What do I have to worry about?_

 

For the rest of the morning he wrote letters. To his sister, to past dalliances- nothing heartfelt there, just a firm _stop_ on all incoming letters. No need for anyone else to get into trouble for his sins.

 

_Dearest Sister_

_I’m sorry I’ve been so distant in writing lately. They’ve sacked me. I’ve been in a bit of a tight spot but I’m all right now. I really am. I’ve found a way out of it all and I’m happier for it. I love you dearly; send my regards to Luke- and yes, even to dad. Tell him that I hope he’s happy now._

_I love you. Your brother forever and ever._

_Tom._

That would have to do. He couldn’t force any more emotion out- he didn’t have any left.

 

He tried to write a letter to Jimmy. He really did. He scrawled something long winded and meaningful, all the wonderful things to him Jimmy was, all he meant- not in spite of his lack of feelings of ‘those’ kind, but because of them. But he ripped it up when he was done and said something short instead.

 

 _Dear Jimmy_.

_I wish you were here. You’re a great friend. I’m sorry._

_Thomas._

 

Finally, as he wandered downstairs to put his letters in for collection he saw Mr Carson disappear into his office and knocked smartly on the door, on whim.

            “Enter.” Came the voice from inside.

            “Mr Carson.” Thomas shut the door behind him.

            “Mr Barrow.” Carson sighed. “I don’t want to have another discussion about-”

            “It’s not about that.” He cleared his throat.

            “Well?”

            “Well. I think y’were right. Pushing me when you did. You’ve always been fair to me- or as fair as you could bring yourself to be, in spite of m’self.” What was he trying to say? Nothing came to mind. “Anyway- I’ve been the same back.” Carson was staring at him, slightly struck, trying to figure out if he was being ridiculed.

            “Hope we can agree on that, and I shan’t be botherin’ you much longer.” Thomas nodded his head. “That was all.”

            “Well- I- I don’t… what is it you’re saying, Mr Barrow? Nothing dramatic, I hope.” He arched an eyebrow.

            “No, nothin’ like that. Just leavin’ things as they are.” Thomas squared his shoulders, nodded again, and left. No more distractions. No more postponements. It was time to do what needed to be done.

 

He ran a bath, smiling reassuringly to Andy as he passed him, but the time for words was long since gone. At the last minute he put his undershirt and trousers back on. No man wants to be found naked. It felt odd getting into the warm-ish water in them but that was the least of his worries.

            He’d brought his straight razor with him.

 

It was odd. He felt nothing. Just a gnawing emptiness. He sat in the water- waiting for the crisis of his world to overtake him but there wasn’t one. There was just some sort of drive for it to be over. He looked to the blade and then at his wrist. He’d have to cut vertically, he knew that- you couldn’t patch it up easily if you did it like that. On impulse he pressed the blade to his skin. Nothing. He’d have to do it deep- but he’d gotten himself shot he could surely manage this. He drew the blade down, digging it in as deep and as quickly as he dared, all up his forearm- and they don’t call them _cut-throat_ for nothing- the wound opened up like he was ripping fabric- the _pain_ \- at last he felt something. He took a few shuddered breaths and hissed; groaning as the nerves kicked in and a burning sensation took hold over his arm. He needed to do the other before lost too much blood- and there was a lot, seeping over his arm and spilling into the water. When he moved a red smear was left on the side. _Fine_.

He repeated the movement, drawing the blade slower this time, hissing through clenched teeth and fighting gagging at watching his skin open up, but he was fascinated, too. He wanted to press his hands over the wounds, make the pain go away, but that wouldn’t help. He kept the razor in his left hand, hanging over the edge of the bath and sunk down into the water. He felt on fire, alive, and at last and was seized by sudden panic. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want this- he’d made a mistake he’d-

            _No it’s too late now- you can’t go back and there’s nothing to go back to-_ His eyes stung and tears dribbled down his cheeks. At last he could feel it- the heart aching stupidity of it all.

            _It’s not fair it’s not bloody fair I didn’t want this life but I don’t want to die. I want there to be another way. What do I care anymore? No one has ever cared about me- I just want to be loved and liked like anyone else- why was I born like this? It’s NOT FAIR_.

He sniffed and hitched a sob, shoulder’s shaking as his throat tightened. His wrapped his arms around his chest, spreading red stains over his shirt, but he couldn’t focus on shutting out the feeling- every movement sent licked flames of pain up his arms, so he let his right arm fall into the water, soothed by the comforting pressure of it. He couldn’t feel blood seeping any more, just a warm sort of feeling. His other arm hovered over the side, dripping onto the floor and creating a soothing soundtrack of his time running out.

            _What’s worse- a sodomite, or a sodomite that commits suicide?_ Thomas lay in his bath, water going red all around him, grieving for himself because at last he could let go.

            _A coward’s death. That’s what I deserve. Couldn’t even die for my country properly. I’m just like every other bugger out there- this is what I deserve. God must have had a good laugh in creating me- seeing how much he could push a man until he broke- well I’ve failed. Everyone I’ve ever met has hated me for what I am- or otherwise, and I can’t take it anymore. I’ve pushed everyone away and it’s all my fault- **Jimmy**. Jimmy I’m so sorry, I’m sorry for everything I’ve done and how I felt for you…_

_Is this how you felt, Edward? Well maybe wherever I’m goin’ I’ll join you. I hope so…I bet you weren’t scared like I am. You’re brave if you did this… I hope you never felt as awful as I did, to do this to yourself. I understand now, why you wanted to die alone, by your own means… control feels good, doesn’t it…_

_I wish I could carry on. I wish I wasn’t so useless- I wish I could have stayed- if I hadn’t been so insufferable… maybe then someone would have cared… someone would have helped me… but no I had to be myself and be a bastard because that’s all I’m good for. Christ…. I’m going to die… and no one cares… and no one will go to my funeral… and no one…_

The razor slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. Thomas tried to lift his head but it was too heavy. The room started spinning. He shut his eyes.

            _This is it then. And I’m gone. I can feel m’self fading away- can’t even feel the cuts on my wrists any more, I must be close- what should my last thought be…_ _Oh God I'm scared- I hope..._

            His left arm slipped into the water, but he couldn’t feel it. When the water started going cold he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel that he was conscious, and soon he wasn’t.

           

Cold and pale, Thomas Barrow lay in a bathtub to die.


End file.
